


Avatar Rising: Opening the Way

by leonidaslion



Series: Angelwings [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About 3 years after Azrael's death, Dean's life has settled into a fairly comfortable routine. He should have known it was too good to be true ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean was in San Francisco when it happened and at first he brushed it off: after all, the dude in the red windbreaker wasn’t the first one who’d looked at him like he was some kind of exotic dessert. Sam was up in Oregon, visiting Ann Tallahause. The first few times he went back to visit, he had tried to get Dean to come with him, but that was going to happen just about never, and these days Sam didn’t bother asking. Just bought himself a plane ticket from whatever town they happened to be in and arranged to meet Dean somewhere exactly one week later.

Dean still had three days left to himself when he dropped into Slim’s on 11th St. for a few drinks and, if he got lucky, a girl. As usual, Dean had been sick of the empty motel room on the first night, and had spent each successive night pacing from the door to the bathroom and back again, waiting for the sun to come up and resisting the urge to call his brother and demand that Sam get his sorry ass on the next flight down. Bringing a girl back would make for an awkward morning, but Dean could take a little awkwardness if it meant not having to sleep in that room by himself. The sex was just a bonus.

He saw a promising prospect straight off—a curvy brunette with a slow smile and a great ass—and snagged a table in her line of sight. Carefully started establishing eye contact while ignoring the guy in the red windbreaker who was standing by the bar and trying to do the same to him. It didn’t take long before the girl’s smile was turned in Dean’s direction: until her eyes stopped saying, _gee, he’s kinda hot_ , and started demanding, _get the hell over here right now_.

Dean slipped out of his seat and started moving toward her through the crowd, only to be intercepted— _damn it_ —by the guy in the windbreaker. _Oh, not now,_ Dean thought as the guy offered him a bottle of beer.

“Hi, I’m Chris.”

Over Chris’ shoulder, Dean could see confusion bloom on the brunette’s face. Saw her eyes darken in disappointment before she started to turn away, writing him off as a lost cause. “Sorry, dude; I’m straight. Better luck next time.” Dean clapped the man on the shoulder and moved forward, trying to catch the brunette’s eye again.

Chris skipped back a few steps to stay with him, still holding the beer out hopefully. “You sure?” he asked, sliding between Dean and his goal for a second time.

“Positive. Look, I’m real flattered, but—damn it.” A broad, blond guy in his late twenties had slipped up to the brunette, and without so much as a glance in Dean’s direction, she had her tongue down his throat.

Chris followed his gaze and grimaced, abashed. “Oh. Oh hey, sorry.”

 _Probably her boyfriend, anyway,_ Dean thought, and didn’t quite believe himself. He shrugged. “Other fish in the sea, right?”

“Sure.” Chris grinned and shook the beer a little. “Here, take it. Least I can do for, uh, cutting in.”

And there was no way that Dean was going to refuse a free beer. He grinned and took the bottle. “Thanks. And like I said, it’s no problem. Really, don’t worry about it.” He glanced back at his table and then hesitated. _Oh, just say it, Winchester._ “Look, can I just ask—”

“Why I thought you were gay?”

“Um, yeah.” Dean scratched at the back of his head with one hand. “It’s just, uh, it isn’t the first time—” although not with his _brother_ lately, thank fucking God because that shit was _messed up_ “—and I was kinda wondering …”

“I didn’t, not really.” Chris’ smile was wide and honest. Reminded Dean of Sam a bit. “Just, you know, figured you were hot enough to take a shot. Never know if you don’t try, right?”

Since that was Dean’s philosophy when it came to women, it startled a laugh out of him. “Sure.” He glanced at his table again. Thought about heading back to it and scoping for another girl. It was getting late, though, and if he couldn’t find one … Dean really didn’t want to spend a night drinking in a corner by himself just to head home to an empty room.

So he cleared his throat and said, “Hey, you wanna join me?” Chris’ mouth went a little slack, like he’d won some sort of lottery, and Dean quickly added, “Just to talk. You know, shoot the shit?”

Chris’ eyes dropped a little in disappointment, and Dean thought that the kid was going to bow out, but then his gaze brightened and he nodded. “Sure, okay. But uh, can I get a name?” His smile was wide, open, and Dean felt his chest loosen a bit. It wasn’t Sammy’s smile, but it was close.

“Name’s Mike,” he said glibly. “Now come on, before some asshole steals our table.”

Eight beers and a plate of nachos later and Dean was floating high. He could feel his face going numb and his muscles were pleasantly relaxed. Felt real good. Chris was pretty cool, too: knew a lot about movies, great taste in music. They talked about baseball, and how they’d both hated math in school, and how the ’67 Impala was one of the finest cars ever made. And then, suddenly, the bar was closing—when had _that_ happened?—and Chris’ arm was around Dean’s waist, half-supporting him as he led Dean out into the parking lot. Huh. Kid was stronger than he’d thought, stringy little body like that.

“Pretty stong,” Dean observed aloud. Then frowned and corrected himself. “Strong.”

“I can hold my own.”

They were passing his car, Dean noticed. He stirred and stumbled a few steps backward. “Muh car. S’there.” He tried to remember whether he’d actually told Chris about his baby during the Impala conversation and couldn’t. His brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Maybe he should have passed on those last two beers.

Chris’ arm was gone from around his waist and Dean took a step and found himself face down on the pavement. Ow. He could taste blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his lip. Rolled over and stared up at Chris. _Maybe I should call a cab,_ he wanted to say, and then all his muscles went suddenly lax. The world was spinning around him, it was graying out, and his stomach heaved once before settling into the same stupor as the rest of him.

Chris’ face loomed in his vision, smiling wide. Dean tried to get his mouth to work and couldn’t. Felt the darkness rising around him, pulling him down into unconsciousness. Dean had time for one last, indignant thought— _bastard roofied me!_ —and then he was under.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean’s head was floating near the ceiling. His stomach was rolling around somewhere on the other side of the room and someone had stuffed his mouth full of cotton. Or he’d just been drugged.

He groaned, cracking his eyes cautiously, and instantly regretted it as the room spun upside down and dropped his head back onto his shoulders. Dean clenched his teeth together, trying to ignore the way his stomach was trying to crawl out his mouth. Slid his eyes shut again and waited for his body to settle.

He could hear at least two other people talking quietly in the room, which wasn’t a good thing, but he still had his clothes on, so chalk one up for the home team. He tried to keep still, wondering if he could play possum long enough for the drug to finish working its way out of his system. But apparently God still hated him, because the low sound of conversation stopped and then there were footsteps coming toward him.

“Welcome back.”

Dean licked his lips, tasting blood, and carefully opened his eyes again. Made sure to remain completely still this time. Chris was crouched in front of him, a slight smile on his face. “How are you feeling?”

“You really don’t want to do this, man,” Dean said. His throat was parched and he swallowed carefully.

Chris reached for him, and Dean pulled back. Moved to get up and _fuck_ whatever that did to his stomach or head, and found that he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he was tied to a chair. Tied to a chair in what looked like someone’s basement. Dean jerked his arms and there was something around his wrists: something cold and hard, like a chain.

Fuck.

“Let me up, _now_.” His voice was panicky, but he couldn’t help it: couldn’t slow his heart down. _'Manners, Dean. I warned you. Now we’re going to have to start all over again.'_ “Let me up, damn it!”

Fear was clearing his head: pushing through the drug and reconnecting his body to his brain. He still felt hung over, but he could move his head without puking, at least. He whipped it back now as Chris pressed his fingers against the pulse-point on Dean’s throat. Like the pressure of a knife leaving thin, shallow cuts, or a white-hot poker, and he could smell it—smell himself burning—the scent curling hot and sick into his mouth.

No, he was fine. He wasn’t burning. Wasn’t being cut. Azrael was dead: couldn’t touch him anymore. And it wasn’t knives and brands Dean had to worry about right now, not unless Chris was a kinky motherfucker.

He tried to relax but his body resisted, throat tight and breathing labored. Azrael had taught Dean to associate being restrained in a basement with being torn apart, and his body didn’t understand that it was over. He was going to hyperventilate himself right back into unconsciousness before he managed to calm down.

Then Chris was pulling his hand back and moving away. Dean’s throat loosened immediately and a deep breath of fresh air rushed into his lungs. Thank God.

“He’s fine,” Chris announced, glancing over his shoulder. “Pulse is a little fast, if anything.”

“He better be fine.” A man’s voice, low and rough. Dean’s eyes darted to the corner of the room by the stairs and the bulky figure in the shadows there.

“You morons don’t know who you’re messing with,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Chris beamed down at him with that familiar smile and crossed his arms. “Oh, I think we do. Dean.”

All the moisture in Dean’s mouth evaporated.

Nodding, Chris strolled around behind his chair, where Dean couldn’t see him anymore. “That’s right, we know who you are. Who you _really_ are.”

The man in the corner shifted. “You sure you’ve got the right guy?” he asked. “This one reeks of fear.”

“Sorry. If I’d _known_ I was going to be roofied and kidnapped, I would’ve worn my good cologne.” It slipped out before Dean could stop himself and he tensed, expecting retribution: talons ripping through his back. _Dead_ , he reminded himself. _Azrael’s dead._

Chris’ hands dropped onto his shoulders, startling Dean into a low curse. Then he leaned over, mouth close to Dean’s ear, and murmured, “Go ahead, Dean. Tell him who you are.”

Dean squared his jaw and pressed his lips together because there were only two words he was prepared to give the kid, and now didn’t really seem like the opportune moment to tell Chris to fuck off. He might get the wrong idea. Chris’ grip tightened, grinding Dean’s tendons against his shoulder blades. He could keep that up all day if he wanted, but Dean wasn’t saying shit: kid was an amateur when it came to dealing out pain.

Then again, compared to Azrael most people were.

“Fine,” Chris said finally. Unlocked his right hand and reached down to grab Dean’s amulet. Then he yanked it off, snapping the leather loop, and threw it to his buddy in the corner.

“I’m not convinced,” came the sour response. The amulet was tossed back onto the floor and Dean stared at it. He felt so damned naked without the thing around his neck. Felt exposed.

“Oh, come on. Can’t you feel it? Smell it? He’s been _touched_.”

And what the hell did that mean? Nothing good, that was for sure. Dean cleared his throat and drawled, “Yeah, and you can get your hands off me any time now.” Playing dumb in the hopes that he could still maneuver himself out of this thing that was feeling less and less as though it was about sex.

A knife slid into Dean’s view, dropping down toward his chest, and he tensed. Yeah, definitely not about sex.

“Don’t move,” Chris whispered in his ear, and then the knife slipped under Dean’s shirt and pulled up: sharp edge splitting the fabric, blunt edge against his skin, and suddenly he wasn’t sure again. Maybe they liked it rough, liked a little pain with their pleasure, which … Yeah, Dean wasn’t really into pain even when there were girls involved. He got enough of that shit on the job.

“This how you two get your rocks off?” he asked, throwing it out there.

Chris gave the knife a final jerk, cutting through Dean’s collar, and then smoothed the edges of the shirt away from his chest. “Take a look for yourself,” he called, absently tapping the flat of the blade against Dean’s side.

Head bent, his buddy stepped out from the corner. A shaggy shock of red hair fell around his face, hiding it. His frame was heavy—bullish—and he was wearing a leather jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots.

Red strode forward with one hand outstretched, reaching, and Dean tried to push himself backwards. Tried to push the chair over on top of Chris because this felt _wrong_ and Dean’s heart was trying to slam through his ribcage. The chair didn’t move and when Dean craned his neck down, he saw that they had bolted it to the floor. Which meant they’d probably done this before.

Then Red was there, right in front of him, and there was a hand on his chest. Just a brush of fingers and Dean felt his chest constricting, trying to fold in on itself. Felt his lungs twist, pooling blood. Tasted warm copper on his tongue. He closed his eyes, gasping, and suddenly he was back against that shitty cabin wall and his life was running down his chest, was soaking his shirt, was pooling on the floor. The demon was standing there, wearing his father like a suit: eyes bright and lips twisted into a grin as he pushed power through Dean’s insides. Making it slow. Making it last.

Then Dean was panting, and the hand was gone. The pain was gone, the cabin was gone. John was gone. Dean gulped in fresh breaths of air, half-expecting to feel the slick, coppery slide of blood down his throat and feeling nothing: feeling fine. He glanced down at his chest, eyes wide, and there was blood there, but only scattered droplets.

“What the hell?” Dean grated.

Red ignored his question, dragging one finger through the blood. He raised his hand slowly to his mouth and slipped his finger between his lips. Dean’s stomach turned over and he glanced away.

“Satisfied?” Chris asked from behind him.

“Yes.” The rumble of Red’s voice drew Dean’s eyes back and he saw that the man had lifted his head. Was staring at Dean, face expressionless and eyes black pools of oil. Oh shit.

“You two aren’t actually gay, are you?” Dean said.

“Mmm …” Chris slid a hand across Dean’s throat, nails scraping lightly against his Adam’s apple. Azrael had touched him like that. Had curled one hand around his throat to hold him still while it … No, not going there. Dean was alert now. He was in charge of his own head, and he could keep those fucking memories at bay if he wanted to.

“Great,” he muttered, jerking his head away from Chris’ hand. “You guys aren’t gonna start singing Streisand, are you? Cause that really _would_ be evil.”

Chris laughed and padded around in front of Dean again. He was grinning Sam’s grin, and the demon was dark and shining in his eyes. “Male, female, what’s the difference?”

“As long as they bleed,” Red added tonelessly.

“Sorry, guys, I already donated to the Red Cross. Fresh out.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Red said. He didn’t sound particularly happy or unhappy about it, voice as empty as his face. Chris, however, was practically bouncing on his feet. Going by his past experiences with Meg, Dean figured that wasn’t a great sign.

“Now why don’t I believe that?” he muttered.

Chris shrugged. “Dunno. We’re known for our honesty, after all.” Then he glanced at Red and said, “Now that you’re satisfied I got the right one, you want to get the others? I’ll set everything up.”

“Set what up?” Dean asked as Red nodded and headed up the stairs. “Hey!” he called, tracking Chris with his eyes as the demon moved over to a table at the side of the room. “Set _what_ up?”

Chris didn’t answer as he came back to the chair, holding a glass jar of something red and moist and an artist’s paintbrush. He looked down at Dean for a moment and then grinned broadly. Knelt by his feet and started painting something on the concrete.

“Hey, you take requests, Rembrandt?”

Chris glanced up at him from underneath his bangs and hummed a little. Dean forced himself to sit quietly for a few minutes while Chris drew a series of interlocking symbols around him. Then said loudly, “Real pretty, but I’m into more of a realist approach. You know, naked chicks and fruit and shit.”

Chris finished finally and stood, empty jar held loosely from one hand. There were traces of maroon inside it, drying darker by the moment. And suddenly Dean could smell it. He could smell it all around him, too familiar for comfort: someone else’s blood.

Chris was either psychic or Dean was letting too much show on his face because the demon smirked and said, “Brings back memories, doesn’t it, Dean?”

“Where’d you get it?”

Chris shrugged and tossed the jar to one side, where it shattered on the floor. “Some virgin. Funny, they keep getting younger and younger, don’t they?” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “Young people today: no morals, I tell you.”

“I’m gonna send you back to hell,” Dean said, baring his teeth in a cold smile.

“Yeah?” Chris chuckled. “Funny, but I don’t really see that happening. You know, with you all tied up and at our mercy.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

And suddenly Chris was in Dean’s face, leaning his weight on Dean’s knees and standing carefully amidst the drying swirls of blood on the floor. “Yeah, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Dean? I still don’t understand it: how a feeble sack of meat and bone like you could destroy something like Azrael.” Dean’s breathing sped and Chris smiled. “Don’t like hearing that name, do you?” He reached forward, dragged one hand across Dean’s cheek. His voice dropped, low and intimate. “I know what she did to you.”

Dean stiffened. He tried to move away and the metal cuffs cut into his wrists. Pulled against them and blood ran out, slicking his fingers, but it wasn’t enough to slide his hands free. “Fuck you,” he ground out.

Chris gripped Dean’s chin and held his head steady. “You’re all she can talk about,” he whispered. “The way you begged. The way you looked, chained down and opened. How she could just reach right inside—” His other hand slid up and tapped against Dean’s chest. “—and squeeze …”

“No …” God, _no_. Dean’s head pulsed with the weight of memories. Jostling for room, pushing at the walls he’d built to keep them away.

“We’re gonna open you up, Dean. Open you up so wide …”

 _'I wouldn’t have to punish you if you didn’t try running away' … blur of blood on a knife blade … 'Maybe we should find something a little more secure for you' … sound of his ribs parting … 'A collar, perhaps' … slender hand slipping through … 'it could help you remember your place.”_

Then Chris was gone, out of his space again, and the memory retreated. Dean felt a rush of relief that was almost painful in its intensity. He couldn't think about that again: not if he wanted to be at all coherent for whatever the demons were planning. There were things about his time with Azrael that he’d blocked out so well they hadn’t even surfaced in his darkest dreams—things he’d needed to block out if he was going to stay sane—and this was one them. He hadn’t thought about that punishment since Sammy found him again. Since Dean had slid a knife between Azrael’s ribs and ended the nightmare.

“She was brilliant, wasn’t she?” Chris said. “So creative. She should have been one of _us_. But you …” He frowned bitterly. “What makes you so special? She should have fallen: should have turned. She shouldn’t be some pathetic _human_. Powerless. Defeated. Begging. Why? What makes _you_ worth the price of a soul, huh? The first soul God’s ever given one of us, and it’s being wasted on your revenge. Why is that, Dean?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Red’s voice made Dean jump a little: he hadn’t noticed the demon’s return. Although he had been a little distracted, so he didn’t blame himself too much.

Red was standing at the bottom of the stairs. A small crowd of demons waited behind him, beetle eyes focused on Dean. They noticed him looking and shifted back. Muttered amongst themselves as though he made them nervous.

 _Yeah right, Winchester. You sure you’re feeling okay there? Not coming a little unhinged?_

“If we needed to know, we’d be told,” Red said flatly.

Chris clenched his hands. “But I want—”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll do what you’re told, same as the rest of us. And when the time comes, maybe you won’t be thrown to the Tartaruchi.” Chris paled and Red nodded. “Thought so. Now finish up.” Dismissing Chris, Red glanced over his shoulder. “You lot, get into position.”

They moved around Dean quietly, surrounding him. Eleven in total, not including Red and Chris, who brought the number up to lucky thirteen. Dean could feel their power pressing against him from every side, fencing him in, and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. Everything was graying, he was going under again …

“Knock it off!” Red’s voice penetrated the fog and then, suddenly, the pressure was gone. Dean sucked in a deep breath and glanced at the demons, cowering back a little from Red’s anger. “What the fuck did you think you were all doing?”

The demons looked back at him sullenly, stealing anxious glances at Dean.

“Well?” Red demanded.

“It’s him,” one of the demons behind Dean offered.

“He’s tied to a fucking chair, you morons,” Red growled. “It’s perfectly safe.”

Heh. So they _were_ scared of him. What a fucking joke. Still, Dean could use this, maybe. Get out of here.

“Yeah,” he said loudly, and a few of the demons closest to him jumped. “Safe as houses.” He grinned. Took the fear bolting through him and used the adrenaline to turn the grin feral. “Course, these cuffs _are_ a little flimsy …”

One of the demons edged backwards.

Dean shoved his legs against the rope binding him to the chair legs and felt it give minutely. “Gee, who tied these knots? Guess y’all need a little refresher in Bondage 101—”

“He’s bluffing,” Red snapped, interrupting him. The demon strode forward slapped Dean, hard, across the jaw. Dean’s mouth filled with blood, and he turned his head to the side. Spat it out onto the floor, aiming for the symbols Chris had painted. Maybe if he fucked with it, whatever they were going to do to him wouldn’t work.

“You think he’d let me do that if he could do anything about it?” Red yelled, turning in place and glaring at the circle of demons. When they refused to meet his eyes, he grabbed hold of Dean’s hair and yanked his head back. Dean opened his mouth to say something smart. Then went still as the tip of a knife pricked his throat.

“The great Dean Winchester,” Red drawled sarcastically. “Take a good look. I could slit his throat right now and he couldn’t do one thing about it except bleed to death.”

“He killed Dahaka with that fucking gun.”

“And Azrae—”

Red dropped the knife, slicing a thin line down Dean’s chest. It didn’t hurt much, but he hadn’t been expecting it and the sudden pain surprised a yell out of him. He jerked his head, trying to pull his hair free from Red’s grip, but then the knife was back against his throat and Dean forced himself to relax.

“How many cuts is it going to take?” Red asked. “Cause I can stand here and do this all fucking day if I have to, but I’d like to get this over with so I can go home. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got a few pokers sitting in the fire that I’m just dying to get back to.” There was no way of knowing whether Red meant that in a literal or a figurative sense, but seeing as he was a demon, Dean figured it was probably a little of both.

“Foras?” Chris called tentatively. “We’re ready.”

“ _Are_ we?” Red—Foras—asked, voice dripping with meaning.

There was a moment of silence that Dean desperately wanted to interrupt, but he didn’t quite dare trying with a knifepoint digging into his throat. Finally, there were grumbled assents from the circle. Dean’s head was released, the knife taken away.

Dean met Foras’ eyes and then glanced down at his own chest. “Thought you weren’t going to hurt me.”

“I’m not.” Foras smiled for the first time, and Dean wished that he’d just kept on being toneless. “You’ll know if I start hurting you, Dean.”

Foras stepped back and Dean looked past him at Chris, who was waiting inside the circle with a large, steaming bucket at his feet and a glass in his hand. When Foras turned to him, Chris handed over the glass and Dean could see something slosh slightly inside it. He swallowed nervously as Chris picked up the bucket and came over to stand behind him.

“This isn’t going to work,” Dean said as Foras,holding the glass in both hands and smiling, stepped close again.

“I didn’t know you were familiar with this ritual.”

“Doesn’t matter. You can do whatever you want to me, but you’re not getting to Sam.” Foras blinked at him, smile deepening, and Dean plunged on. “We’re not stupid. He checks, every time. Holy water, Christos, the whole deal.”

Foras leaned forward, close enough that his mouth brushed the rim of Dean’s ear, and murmured, “Who said anything about Sam?”

Dean frowned as Foras straightened again. Damned thing was trying to confuse him: trying to make him believe this wasn’t about Sam so he wouldn’t see the trap coming. Wouldn’t be able to avoid it. But it always came down to Sam in the end, and Dean knew it. “I’m not dumb. I know that you—”

“ _Drasti kyrion, talbeth reix_ —” The words rolled off of Foras’ tongue and into Dean, stunning him into silence. Because he recognized that language, and the last time he’d heard it, it had been coming out of Azrael’s mouth. Flash of silver eyes. Cruel. Mocking.

 _No._

He yanked against the cuffs: felt more blood drip down. Worked his legs to free himself. He’d felt the rope give earlier; if he worked at it enough, maybe he could …

“Anoint him.” English. Good. Fucking great. Dean could listen to English all fucking day so long as … The faint clinking noise of metal hitting plastic was the only warning he had before Chris upended the bucket over his head.

A warm wave sloshed over Dean. Covered him, dripping in his eyes and nose and mouth. He knew what it was almost instantly—recognized the taste—and he wanted to scream. Spat instead, swearing and shivering and struggling to get free. He was soaked in someone, wearing someone’s life, tasting it.

Chris’ hand wrapped in Dean’s hair and drew his head back. Foras was still chanting, and the others were taking the words up. The sound sent a resonance buzzing inside Dean’s skull.

Then Foras moved the glass forward and the panic that had been gnawing at the edges of Dean’s resolve slipped in. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t covered in blood. Wasn’t going to let them pour more of it down his throat. He pressed his mouth closed and Chris wrapped his other hand around Dean’s face, thumb and middle finger digging into the pressure points that dropped his jaw.

No. Shitfuck.

Dean fought, trying to wrench his head out of Chris’ grasp, and could only watch as the glass came closer. He felt it brush his bottom lip. Fine, they could pour that shit in his mouth, but there was no way in hell he was going to swallow it.

“— _zabbratto gricon taqil damactriunux_ —”

Foras tipped the glass and something brown and noxious— _not blood, not blood thank God_ —filled Dean’s mouth. Chris’ grip shifted and he shoved Dean’s jaw shut. Dean sucked a lungful of air in through his nose before Chris’s other hand came around to deny him that airway as well. He blinked up at the demon as Chris let the heel of his palm press against Dean's forehead. Holding his head back. Waiting for gravity and Dean’s need to breathe do their work.

But fuck if Dean was going to swallow. Cause that shit might not be blood but it sure as hell wasn’t a health tonic. His lungs were burning and those words—that _language_ —still slid around him. He could feel darkness edging in: pulling him under. He was suffocating, the world fading to black. He could only hear the chanting dimly now, as though from a great distance. He was floating, he was nowhere, he was …

… being slapped awake. Dean gasped in a breath automatically, and there was no one holding his mouth shut. His tongue was heavy, and something like fire running down his throat. He blinked groggily, looking around. Demons. Chanting. Blood on his skin, slowly cooling. Foras in front of him with the glass, waiting. Chris behind him, and now the demon with Sam’s smile was cupping Dean’s mouth again and holding it open. Tilting Dean’s head back.

Not happening. He was having a nightmare: had to be. But if this was a nightmare, then Azrael would be here. Azrael would be ...

The glass tipped and his mouth filled again. Chris shoved Dean’s jaw shut and blocked his airway, maintaining a steady pressure that held his head up and back. But Dean wasn’t swallowing. Not gonna happen. Not … He dropped into blackness.

Awake again an instant later, cheek stinging from another slap. The glass still in front of him. Heaviness spreading from his tongue downward, and up into his brain, pushing the panic away. He couldn’t figure out how to work his muscles. Couldn’t seem to make himself care.

They made him drink.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was later—how much later, he didn’t know—when they unlocked the cuffs and cut his legs free. Dean slid sideways out of the chair and landed in a heap on the floor. His body was shuddering, wracked with violent muscle contractions. There was leaden fire in his stomach from whatever had been poured down his throat. He blinked at a world of soft edges and blurry colors and couldn’t make his eyes focus. Tried to roll over so he could get up and couldn’t make his body listen to him.

Voices drifted down to him as the demons closed in. They were speaking in English again, but the world keep fading into a dull roar and he could only pick out bits and pieces of what they were saying.

“—killer—”

“—we actually—”

“—not dangerous—”

“—should we?”

“—touch him—”

“—kill you—”

There was a hand on him, lightly resting on his arm. Then pressing, harder. A tentative slap.

“—see? Can’t do anything—”

“—can we?”

There were other hands now. Pressing, pushing him over onto his back, holding him down. He bucked against them, muscles wild. The burn in his stomach was spreading outward, igniting his skin. Couldn’t talk couldn’t move couldn’t run. Couldn’t even curl up to protect himself.

Dean didn’t really feel the first kick, or the second one, but the third one tore a small gasp from his throat. He heard them chatter, excited, and then one of them kicked his knee and dislocated it. He screamed at that, and tried again to crawl. Tried to roll back over. But he couldn’t do anything: could only lay there, his body convulsing as though he was being electrified, while they kicked him. They weren’t kicking hard, not yet—that shot to his knee had been lucky—but they were working up to it.

 _I’m going to die_. Crystal clear thought in the middle of confusion and heat and pain and Dean could only feel relieved because if he was dead, they couldn’t use him to get to Sammy anymore.

But then the demons were pulling back, and there was screaming, and the smell of singed flesh. Not his own, Dean thought. He forced his eyes open and there were bonfires all around him, writhing and indistinct. Demons burning. _People_ burning as the demons left them in clouds of black smoke and sank through the floor. Dean felt ash flake down on his face and wanted to throw up.

“—warned them—” Foras was saying. Dean turned his head blindly and found a blur of motion to his left: two distinct shapes. Foras and Chris?

“Is he hurt?” No, not Chris. That was a new voice, and it cut through the roar in Dean’s ears and drove straight into his brain, each word sharp and heavy. Not a familiar voice, but for some reason it made his heart race. Dean knew, objectively, that he was panicking and couldn’t feel it. Could only feel the shaking and the fever and the rising nausea.

Then there were hands on him again, gentle this time. Assessing. “—bruises—any internal bleeding—knee’s dislocated—” There was a pause, and then Foras’ voice again, further off. “—do with his amulet?”

“Send it back with him. It’s harmless. Where’s Sammy?”

 _Sammy? God,_ Sam. _Don’t … don’t touch him._

“—back early—vision—”

“If he had, he’d already be here. No. He suspects something, but he doesn’t know. He’s too late now, anyway." There was a moment of silence and then that cutting voice asked, "How long is it going to take?”

“—sure about—open him up—full moon—if it works—awful big risk—”

“Are you questioning me? No? Good, then. You know what to do.” A face leaned down into Dean’s field of vision. He couldn’t focus: couldn’t make out any details. Then again, he didn’t need to focus to notice the color of the eyes staring out at him from that face. Yellow eyes.

Dean was so screwed.

There was a flash of white opening in the face: the thing was grinning at him. It grasped Dean’s dislocated knee in its hands and he knew what was coming. _Don’t,_ he wanted to say. _I’m good, thanks._ But the only thing that came out of his throat was a weak gurgling noise.

“Sweet dreams, Dean.” The demon pushed and there was a loud pop as Dean’s knee slid back into place. The rush of pain sent him tumbling down into oblivion, and he went gratefully.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam scanned the parking lot, shifting from one foot to the other. The Impala sat beside him, parked in front of Dean’s motel room, where it had been ever since Sam had arrived last night. Dean, however, was nowhere to be found. And he wasn’t answering his cell phone because it was lying in the Impala’s trunk.

 _Something’s wrong._

He’d known all the way over in Oregon, where he’d come awake all at once with his heart in his throat and a plummeting sensation in his stomach and thought, _It’s Dean. He’s in trouble._ Sam had borrowed one of Ann’s cars and driven himself to the airport where he’d caught the first plane to San Francisco. And when he’d arrived, it had been to find this fucked up situation.

It was late: night tipped over into early morning. Sam had spent the day walking around town, looking for Dean and trying to pinpoint where, exactly, his feelings of dread were coming from. When darkness fell, he altered his search pattern. Hit up the bars and the clubs he thought might have appealed to his brother. In Slim’s over on 11th Street, he’d shown Dean’s picture around and gotten his only hit of the night.

One of the waitresses said that she’d maybe seen the guy last night, and Sam’s heart had leapt to attention. But then she’d continued and the despair was even bitterer after that brief taste of hope. It wasn’t Dean: couldn’t have been because the man she’d seen had left the bar with another guy plastered to his side. Dean was into a lot of things, but dudes weren’t one of them.

And aside from that stutter, there’d been nothing. Only an increasing sensation of danger and desperation as time slipped through his fingers and the bars and the clubs started closing. Sam had come back to the motel, intending to get some sleep before trying again, but the room had been suffocating.

Which was how he’d come to be standing in the vacant parking lot, staring at the Impala and hating the fact that it was sitting there, empty and abandoned. The same way that Sam had abandoned Dean.

Because Sam couldn’t help feeling that if he had been a little more concerned about his brother’s safety, then Dean wouldn’t be missing. He never should have insisted on visiting Ann, no matter what his reasons. Those visits were the _only_ thing Sam had left Dean for since he’d reclaimed his brother from Azrael: the only place where Dean refused to follow him. Which had been the whole point, of course: Sam loved his brother, he did, but having Dean in his space 24/7 got ... a little opressive, after a while.

Sam knew Dean hated it, but he’d rationalized the visits by telling himself it was healthy for Dean to spend a week on his own every four months or so. That he was helping Dean as well as himself by giving them a breather. And now his selfishness had turned around to bite Dean in the ass.

Sam kicked the Impala’s wheel viciously. He had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do now. Dean was missing: not much more than twenty-four hours yet, admittedly, but Sam knew in his gut that something was wrong. Knew it the way he’d known something was wrong back when Azrael was putting its hooks into his brother. He wasn’t going to shrug the feeling off this time.

He had to think. Tracing the cell was out, because the cell wasn’t with Dean. Same problem with the Impala. Maybe Bobby could whip together a tracking spell, or …

Rubber squealed as a van spun into the motel parking lot, accelerating straight toward him. Sam stared at it, frozen with shock. It was going to hit him, he was going to be a smear between the side of the Impala and the van’s front grille, and then the van was turning. The tires emitted a deafening scream of protest as the van’s rear end fishtailed around to face him. The back doors were open and there was a man standing there, red hair whipping in the wind. He was holding something large up in his arms.

 _Dean._

Sam started forward, chasing the van, and then the redhead shoved Dean off the back. Sam watched helplessly as his brother slammed down on the pavement, rolling limply. As Dean tumbled to a stop, the redhead tossed something else after him. Metal gleaming in the streetlights, turning over and over in a high arc: thin, dark strands floating behind. Dean’s amulet.

Sam dropped down next to his brother. He could hear the van’s engine whine as it hurtled back out of the parking lot and onto the street, but it didn’t seem to matter. Later, Sam would hunt down the bastards that had done this to his brother and teach them what it meant to fuck with the Winchesters, but right now all he cared about was making sure Dean was okay. That he was still alive.

Dean had rolled to a stop facedown, right cheek pressed against the pavement. The upturned side of his face was swollen, and his lower lip was split in several places. He was shirtless, the muscles in his back working— _still alive, thank God_ —as shudders ripped through his body. And he was covered in tacky, half-dried blood.

Sam’s hands hovered over his brother, not sure where he could touch without hurting. “Dean,” he said.

Dean’s visible eye opened and rolled back. He struggled to move, trying to marshal his arms and legs underneath him, and couldn’t stop shaking long enough to do anything. Sam brushed Dean’s back with one hand, trying to calm him.

“Dean, _stop_. It’s okay. You’re safe now. Don’t try to move, okay, man? I’m gonna call an ambulance.” He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was hoarse, as though it hurt to talk, and the word was slurred. _They drugged him_ , Sam thought. _God, Dean. Why the hell does this shit keep happening to you?_

“Don’t try to talk,” he said. “Just—it’ll be okay. Fix you up in no time.”

“No … hospital.”

“Dean, you’re—God, man, you’re covered in blood. I’m not stitching you up myself.” Not to mention whatever was causing the convulsions. Sam was trying to dial, but it was difficult to see the numbers because his eyes were watering. He blinked furiously to clear them, and was concentrating so intently on the phone that he jumped when Dean’s hand landed on his knee.

“’S not … mine …”

“What?” Sam leaned down closer. He’d heard that wrong, right?

“Not my … blood … just …” He swallowed. “Get me inside … get it offa … me …”

Dean couldn’t mean … Those people in that van had done something _to_ him, _Dean_ hadn’t … Not again.

But Dean was groaning and trying to get to his feet, despite the fact that he barely had rudimentary control over his body. So Sam shoved his doubts aside and looped his arms around his brother, hauling him up. He hesitated for a second—Dean was going to hate this—and then bent his knees and leaned into Dean, hoisting him up onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

This close he could feel the heat radiating off of Dean in waves: he was burning inside, his temperature dangerously high. Sam hurried his steps toward the room, thankful that he had left the door unlocked when he came out here to brood over the car.

“‘M not a baby … put me down.”

Stupid, stubborn asshole. “Shut up, Dean.” He fumbled the knob with one hand, used his unoccupied shoulder to push the door open. Dean was shuddering against him: trying to fight his way down even through the convulsions. Sam gritted his teeth. “You don’t stop that, man, and I’m gonna knock you out.”

“Asshole.”

“Right back at you.” Sam kicked the door shut and went straight over to the bathroom. He didn’t even bother turning on the light, just leaned over and let his brother slip off his shoulder and into the tub. Dean slumped down on the bottom and Sam hooked his hands underneath his brother’s armpits. Pulled him up and leaned him against the wall.

“You gonna stay there if I turn the water on?”

Dean’s head jerked up and down once, sharply, and Sam took that as agreement. He reached over and turned the knob, keeping one hand pressed against Dean’s shoulder, holding him as still as he could. The water roared out, ice cold, and Dean’s head slammed back into the wall.

“Oh, shit, Dean! I’m sorry, I should’ve—I didn’t think—”

“S okay … better now.” Dean cracked one eye and fixed it on Sam. “Didn’t say it,” he accused, teeth pressed together.

“What?” Sam glanced at the light switch, wondering if he dared move away from Dean long enough to get some light in here.

“Chree … Chrees … didn’t …”

Sam frowned as he realized what Dean was upset about. “You’re not possessed, Dean.”

“Don’t _know_ that. Say it. Sammy, say it.” His hands stuttered up, reaching for Sam’s arm.

“Christo,” Sam snapped, pushing Dean’s hands down. “Now shut up and don’t move, okay? I’m gonna turn the light on, get something to wipe you down with.”

Dean was marginally better when Sam knelt by the tub again, probably because he wasn’t trying to do anything anymore. The water was running pink down the drain, dragging darker rivulets wherever the spray pushed a chunk of blood off of Dean’s body. Sam slung one arm across Dean’s back and pulled him forward, using the washcloth in his other hand to scrub at the blood caked on his brother’s skin.

Dean made a small, pained noise as Sam dragged the cloth across his chest and Sam nearly dropped it in surprise. “I thought you said this wasn’t your blood,” he said tightly.

“Just a … little cut.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Sam cleaned the thin gash and the area around it carefully, wincing as large bruises appeared. Dean was barely going to be able to move tomorrow—if he had even regained control of his own muscles by then. “What did they give you?”

“Give …” Dean’s eyes fluttered open and he struggled against Sam suddenly.

Sam swore as Dean cracked his head against the wall again. “Stop it, Dean!”

“Water! Sam, water!”

“Just _stop_ , okay? Stop and tell me what you want.” Sam tightened his grip on his brother until Dean realized he wasn’t going anywhere and sagged against him.

“Holy water … Please, Sammy.”

“Okay, just—just hang on.” Sam eased his brother back against the wall. Jogged out to the room and fished around until he came up with Dean’s flask. Brought it back, unscrewing the cap as he went, and then dropped to his knees next to the tub. Leaning over, he dashed a generous amount of the flask’s contents on his brother’s body. No steam, which was a good sign, at least.

“You’re fine, see? Now what—”

Sam didn’t get to finish his question because Dean managed to get his muscles under control long enough to lunge forward and snag the flask from Sam’s hands. Pressed it against his lips and tilted his head back. Sam was reaching to take the flask back when Dean dropped it into the bottom of the tub and doubled over, fresh convulsions tearing through him.

“Jesus, Dean!”

Dean was making these … sounds … like he was trying to throw up, but nothing was coming. Steam curled up from his mouth in a thick, white cloud.

Damn it. _Damn it!_

Sam pulled his phone out and hit the speed dial with trembling fingers, then used his shoulder to hold it against his ear while trying to steady his brother with both hands. Sam’s heart was deafeningly loud in his head, his stomach swimming alarmingly. The ringing in his ear seemed very faint compared with Dean’s gagging coughs.

Then Bobby’s voice was there, steady and relaxed. “’Lo?”

“Bobby, it’s Sam. Dean’s hurt; I don’t know what happened, he was missing when I got back and—”

“Slow down, Sam. You say Dean’s hurt? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. Some guys in a van dumped him in the parking lot and split. He’s suffering some kind of muscle contractions and running a fever. His speech is slurred and he seems a little out of it. Made me Christo him and then he chugged some holy water and now he’s coughing up steam.”

“Oh, hell.”

“Bobby, please, I don’t know what to do—”

“You need to find out what they gave him, Sam. Can he talk?”

“I don’t—I’ll ask him.” Sam let the phone drop onto the floor and leaned in closer. “Dean? Dean, can you hear me?”

The tremors were lessening again underneath Sam’s hands, but Dean was still coughing up small gouts of steam. He jerked his head in a nod, though, so Sam continued, “I’ve got Bobby on the phone. He’s gonna help, but he says he needs to know what they gave you.”

Dean shook his head and Sam’s stomach gave a sudden lurch. “Okay, you don’t know. Um. Injection? Pill? Liquid?—Liquid? Okay, hold on.” He grabbed the phone and shoved it up to his ear. “He doesn’t know what it was, but he says it was some kind of liquid.”

“Doesn’t exactly narrow it down much. He still coughing?”

“Yeah. It’s easing up, though.”

“Ask him if it helped at all.”

“Bobby wants to know if the holy water helped.”

Dean’s face twisted in a snarl and he slammed one hand against the side of the tub, shaking his head. “Still … in me …”

“He says it’s still in him.”

“I’m coming out there. Where are you?”

“San Francisco.”

“Okay, I’ll catch a flight, be out there in a few hours. I’ll call you when the plane gets in. Until then, keep him cool and hydrated. If he gets too hot, you fill the tub with ice water, keep him there. And, Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“You might want to put some salt around him. Get a few containment spells set up.”

“Damn it, Bobby.”

“I know. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

Sam resisted the urge to throw his phone across the room. Settled for grabbing the trashcan and chucking that out into the bedroom instead. Dean was watching him with bleary eyes, and Sam forced a smile on his face.

“Bobby’s coming. He’ll take care of everything. You’ll be fine, okay?”

Dean shook his head. “Crappy ... liar … Sammy.” Then he closed his eyes and leaned back, pulling in on himself. Sam stared at his brother for a few minutes and then forced himself to get up and headed into the other room. To get some salt, and some chalk, and a few books.

Containment spells, just to be on the safe side. God, he prayed that they wouldn’t need them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bobby’s eyes were concerned as he questioned Dean, a yellowing book open on his lap. He kept flipping through it, back and forth, as Dean answered his questions. It was the fourth book he’d been through so far.

Dean looked like crap, propped up in the bed against the headboard. His skin was pale and shiny with a thick layer of sweat; his eyes were dark hollows. The left side of his face was swollen and looked incredibly painful. The convulsions had finally stopped, though, thank God, and he could form full sentences, even if his voice was still low and hoarse. Sam tossed a fresh baggie of ice to his brother and sat down on the other bed.

“Thanks, man.” Dean lifted forward and tossed the old bag, now full of water, on the floor. Hissed a little as he sat back again with the new one tucked at the base of his skull.

“You recognize any of the symbols?” Bobby asked.

Dean sighed. “Look, we’ve been over this already—”

“Pretend we haven’t. Humor me, here, Dean.”

“Fine. No, nothing I’ve seen before. One of them looked kinda like an inverted cross with two squiggly lines connecting the arms to the bottom.”

Bobby turned the book around and tilted it toward Dean. “Any of these look familiar?”

Dean started to shake his head, and then hesitated. “That one in the middle, maybe. Only theirs had a line through the center, and kind of an upturned tail in the corner.” Bobby grunted and turned a few pages, then handed the book to Dean. Dean’s eyes widened as he looked down at it and his breath caught. “Yeah, that’s it.” He brought the book closer to his eyes, squinting, and Sam frowned.

“Your eyes still bothering you?” he asked.

Dean gave him an annoyed glare. “Just a little hard to focus. I’m fine, dude. Chill.”

Yeah, Dean was real fine, all right. The left side of his face was swollen up like a watermelon, his sides were bruised all to hell, the skin on his wrists was rubbed raw and cut up, his right knee was inflamed and about twice the size it should have been, and he was running a fever of a hundred and two. And that was only the stuff Sam could see. Yup, Dean was just peachy.

“Sagrul, huh?” Dean said, handing the book back to Bobby. “What’s it mean?”

“Blood kin,” Bobby answered, glancing over at Sam.

Dean nodded, face easy. “Figures.” Then, eyes fastened on the far wall, he said, “Hey, Sammy, can you get me a Coke from the vending machine?”

Sam tightened his jaw. “You can’t just send me out of the room, Dean.”

“Sam, please.” Now Dean did look over at him, and his face so open and naked that Sam flinched and dropped his eyes.

“Don’t do this, Dean,” he mumbled, staring at the faded comforter.

“It’s just a Coke, dude.”

Sam snorted, a bitter taste filling his mouth, and pushed himself to his feet. “Just a Coke. Right.”

But he couldn’t hash this out with Dean now. Couldn’t yell at him about keeping secrets in front of Bobby because Bobby didn’t— _couldn’t_ —know about the last time something like this had happened. Bobby was a good friend, but Sam didn’t think he’d understand. There were still hunters out there looking for the Angel of Death: hell, Bobby had done some digging himself. So Sam settled for slamming the door on his way out, doing his best to convey “this is crap, Dean” and “we’re talking about this later” as he did so.

Then he leaned against the door, pressing his ear against it and doing his best to hear what was going on inside. Dean was keeping his voice down—probably knew Sam was listening—but he could hear Bobby’s side of the conversation clear enough.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea … you know he isn’t going to agree to that … Dean, you don’t _know_ what they want—”

“The hell I don’t!” And Sam certainly heard that. The entire motel had heard _that_.

“Let’s just see if we can figure out what’s going on first. No point in jumping to conclusions … well, it would sure be helpful if you’d just tell me what happened … your dad buy that bullshit when you fed it to him? ... okay, sorry. But you have to talk to me here, Dean, or I can’t … No, it’s not here, but I couldn’t bring everything on the plane. Come back with me and we can see if … he’s welcome if he wants to come, Dean. I’m not leaving Sam here just because you think he might be in danger …”

Sam slammed the door open. “I _knew_ it! I knew you’d try to pull something like this!”

Bobby looked startled at his abrupt entrance, but Dean only sighed. “Sammy—”

“No, Dean! You can’t just shut me out of this, not—” He cut himself off before he said it, but he could tell from the way Dean’s face tightened in warning, the way his eyes dimmed, that he knew what Sam was talking about. Not after last time. Not after Azrael.

Bobby shifted to his feet, glancing between them awkwardly. “I’m gonna get some dinner. You boys figure out what you want to do and let me know when I get back.” He gathered up his coat and headed toward the door, pausing by Sam on his way past. “See if you can’t get him to tell you what he’s holding back, Sam,” he said, voice pitched low. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Sam nodded tightly. He glared at Dean as Bobby left, putting all of his anger and frustration into his scowl, but Dean only leaned his head back and shut his eyes. Sam stood there, waiting for Dean to say something—to apologize or argue that he knew best: _something_ —and then gave up waiting and strode forward to drop heavily into the chair Bobby had vacated.

“You can’t do this, man,” Sam said, and hated how needy it sounded.

“Yeah, I can.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Dean. I thought we agreed that we weren’t—”

“I’m not, okay?” Dean picked his head up and looked over at Sam. “There’s nothing else to tell. They grabbed me, did something, and then let me go. That’s it.”

“That’s not it!” Sam shouted. “Don’t you think I know when you’re lying to me? Hell, even Bobby can tell!”

He wanted Dean to get pissed, to yell back at him, but Dean only said, softly, “I’m not lying. I just … wasn’t in the mood to talk about it before.”

“Talk about _what_ before?”

Dean sighed, dropping his eyes. One of his hands picked at the comforter nervously. “They knew, Sam.”

“They knew?” Sam frowned, confused. “Knew what?”

Dean stared at the bedspread, shoulders hunching a little. And just like that, everything fell into place. And then again it didn’t.

“Azrael,” Sam said, and the way Dean’s breathing hitched and sped was a confirmation. “Dean, we already knew about that. You said that the yellow-eyed demon was there, right? So—”

“No, Sam. I mean they _knew_.” Dean’s hand dropped the comforter and slid up to his chest, searching for something—the amulet, Sam realized. It was still outside in the parking lot: he’d have to go find it when Bobby got back. Dean’s jaw clenched as his hand fell away and he turned himself over, weakly sliding to the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing? Dean, stop. You’re sick, you can’t—”

“No, what I _can’t_ is say this while you sit there staring at me like I’m …” Dean trailed off and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Fuck, man.”

“Look, you don’t need to—”

“Yeah, I do. Sam, they knew … stuff … Azrael did to me when I pissed it off.”

Oh, hell. Sam swallowed, feeling like an asshole. Dean was already messed up enough without throwing those memories into the mix, and Azrael was dead—couldn’t hurt them anymore—so it wasn’t the vital information Sam had half-suspected he was hiding. Hastily, he said, “You don’t need to do this. I’ll tell Bobby it isn’t important.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the window. Sam slid onto the edge of his chair, watching for any sign that his brother’s exhausted muscles were about to give out on him. But Dean seemed to be doing all right as he leaned his hands on the sill and stared outside. Sam looked at his brother’s shoulders, flexing underneath the worn grey t-shirt, and for the first time in almost a year, all he could think about was the way they had looked with Azrael’s tattoo: Azrael’s brand.

“I tried to get away, did I tell you that?”

Sam couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat, but Dean apparently hadn’t really been looking for a response anyway, because he immediately continued, “Tried as soon as I could walk again after—” His voice cracked and he dropped his head a little. “—after it punished me for letting you find out.”

Sam remembered that: remembered lying curled up on the floor in Azrael’s basement and listening to his brother’s screams over his cell phone until the battery went dead. Not able to help, not able to stop it, not even able to offer any kind of reassurance or comfort.

“It sent me on a job and I just drove instead. Nowhere specific, just … away.” Dean laughed bitterly. “It didn’t even bother calling me, once it figured out what had happened. Just took me over like some kind of robot. One minute I’m driving down some crummy back road near Detroit, the next I’m kneeling in front of it, and—” He stumbled to a halt, hands tightening on the sill. “It wasn’t happy. Threatened you a bit, watched me more carefully for a while. Took almost a month before I had a chance to try again, and I didn’t even get to the end of the block.”

Horrible as it was to hear, this was all old, familiar ground. That first night after the barn, Dean had told Sam that he’d tried to get away—twice, he’d tried. He’d kept on saying it over and over while Sam washed the blood off of him: it had seemed very important to Dean that Sam understand that he had tried. Bad enough, bringing up memories of that night when Sam hadn’t known if there was anything left of his brother to save, but then Dean continued. And Sam realized that, even then, as lost and hurt as he had been, Dean had been shielding him from the worst.

“Third time I almost made it. I think that’s what pissed Azrael off so much. I was—I _saw_ you, Sam. You were in this café with this short blonde, practically only came up to your waist, and your arm was in a sling.”

“Burrville, Utah,” Sam said softly, remembering.

Dean’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Wherever. I was so fucking close, Sam. I saw you and I started across the street and then—then I blinked and I was back in the basement. With _it_. It had—Fucker chained me to a table, and it had a knife. It was—” He laughed again, a choked sound. “I don’t think I’d ever seen it that pissed off. Anyway, guess it thought I wasn’t getting the message, because it tried something new.”

Sam so didn’t want to hear this. Dean hadn’t told him about this before for a reason, and that was fine. He didn’t need to tell him now. Sam didn’t need to know. He wanted to tell his brother that, but all that came out was, “Dean, don’t—” in a weak, thick voice he barely recognized as his own.

“It cut me open. Stuck its hand right through my chest and grabbed my—my heart, and I don’t know how long it took, but it kept … cutting … kept taking pieces out, and—”

“Stop! Damn it, Dean, just—just stop, okay?”

But Dean ignored him. “When it got bored with that, it started squeezing. Just enough pressure to rupture everything, and I could—I could feel myself dying before its goddamned ritual started putting me back together again. And the whole time, all I could think about was its hand—that its fucking _hand_ was in my _chest_ , and it—” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and then fell silent, which was a fucking blessing because Sam was going to scream if he had to hear anymore.

After a moment of silence, he tentatively said, “Dean, I—”

“Don’t,” Dean growled, turning around. His eyes were dry, his face set in a hostile mask. “Don’t you dare pity me, Sam.”

Sam forced himself to shut his mouth and sat there silently while Dean started back across the room. Halfway to the bed, Dean’s injured knee buckled on him and Sam pushed himself out of his chair. Rushed over in an attempt to catch his brother before he ended up on the floor. He caught Dean around the shoulders and Dean shoved him away, scowling.

“Dude, I’m fine; get off.”

“You’re _not_ fine; you almost—”

“Almost nothing. Keep your hands to yourself, man. Jesus.” Dean ran a hand through his hair, agitated, and then limped back toward the bed, leaving Sam standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Sam watched, hands limply at his sides, as Dean sat down on the bed with a sigh of relief before fixing him with a serious gaze.

“Look, I didn’t tell you that to freak you out, okay? But Chris brought it up, right after he painted those symbols on the floor. Said Azrael talked about it. Then he said that that’s what they were gonna do to me: said they were gonna ‘open me up.’”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“They didn’t, though, right?” Dean smiled sourly. “So, you know, go us.”

“So what, he was just boasting? Threatening you?” Sam figured it was safe to come back to his chair and he did so, knees bumping up against the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s just—and I’m not sure about this, man, cause I was pretty fucked up at the time—but I think one of the other demons said something about it, too. Something about opening me up, and the moon, and whether or not it was a good idea.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam demanded.

“You think I know?”

“No, of course not.” Sam sat back, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “It’s just … this is so fucked up.”

“Tell me about it.”

A silence fell between them as Sam considered what Dean had told him. Then, unwillingly, he asked, “You think this has something to do with Azrael?”

Dean rolled his shoulders in a shrug, expression careless, but his eyes were distant: his face shadowed with remembered pain.

Sam pushed his breath out in a sharp exhale and nodded. “Then I think we should talk to Ann. Or Missouri.” Only a slight tightening around the corners of Dean’s eyes said that he had heard, but somehow the atmosphere in the room suddenly went hostile: thick with tension. Sam didn’t know how Dean managed it. Still, he plunged gamely on. “Dean, if this has something to do with Az—”

“I know, Sam,” Dean snapped. “I’m not stupid. Just shut up and let me think for a minute.”

Sam shut up. Busied himself by tidying things around the room that didn’t really need tidying, and half-pushed, half-goaded Dean into leaning back against the headboard. Then he ran out and got some more ice for the back of his brother’s neck. When he came back in, Dean was tossing the old, water-filled bag back and forth in his hands.

“Okay,” he said as soon as Sam had shut the door behind him. “You’re going to Missouri’s.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Just me, huh?”

“Yup.”

“And meanwhile you’ll be doing _what_ exactly?”

“Heading back to South Dakota with Bobby.”

Anger flared in Sam and he threw the bag of ice he was holding at Dean’s head. Dean was a little too slow to duck and grunted in pain and annoyance at it smacked into him and then fell in his lap, spilling ice everywhere.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that, Dean? You think you’re getting rid of me again?”

“It’s only for a few days, dumb ass,” Dean snapped, but his voice lacked the strength it usually held, and hearing his brother like that sent guilt pangs through Sam. He stood there, indecisive, while Dean started collecting the ice cubes and repacking the baggie. Then Dean winced as he reached off the edge of the bed for a stray cube and the last of Sam’s anger slipped away.

“Dean, I’m sorry, I ...” Sam darted forward and started retrieving the rest of the ice that had bounced off the bed and onto the floor.

“Just—dude, just lighten up a little, okay? I’m not trying to ditch you.” Dean held the baggie out and Sam dropped a handful of cubes in. “It just makes sense to split up on this one. Bobby’s got more chance of fixing whatever the hell they did to me than Missouri, but you’re right: if this has something to do with the feathery bastard, I want to know.” He scooted backwards on the bed and then sank down, slipping the ice underneath his neck again. “You can call Ann from Missouri’s: get her to look through that library of hers.” His lips twitched in a wry smile. “See? Multitasking.”

“Okay, I’ll go to Lawrence,” Sam agreed. “But, Dean? We need to tell Bobby what they said: it could help.” As Dean’s body tensed, he hastened to add, “We’ll leave the Azrael stuff out, but this ‘opening’ thing has to mean something. It could help him identify whatever ritual they did.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean sighed.

“We’ll figure this out,” Sam said softly.

“Sure we will, Sammy.” It would have been more convincing if Dean could have met Sam’s eyes when he said it.


	3. Chapter 3

When Bobby let him into the house, Dean was one drink away from totally shit faced, humming a little under his breath and walking as though the floor might slope to one side at any moment. Bobby had lost track of how much Dean had drunk—despite Bobby’s frequent reminders that his fever still hadn’t gone down completely—but there had been at least four shots at the airport, and then another four or five on the plane itself. Dean had still spent the entire flight hanging onto the armrests in a death-grip, entire body tense despite the pain it must have been causing him. And Bobby had thought that _John_ was a bad flier.

Dean stumbled and Bobby reached out. Caught him before he ended up on the floor. “Thanks,” Dean mumbled, righting himself. “What’ve you got to eat, Bobby? ‘M starving.”

Bobby glanced at his watch and sucked in a breath. The plane had been late landing and the traffic had been hell, which meant that he had fifteen minutes left. “I think there’s some leftover wings in the fridge,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Dean bobbed his head in a nod and limped off for the kitchen, leaning on the wall for support. “Wings. Cool.”

Bobby waited until the boy had disappeared around the corner and then squatted and unlocked the bottom drawer of his cabinet. Pulled out the small wooden box and did his best not to think about the deadline hurtling toward him. He’d make it in time: he had to.

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, eating the wings cold. Bobby made sure to keep his body turned away as he came into the room, keeping his right hand hidden. His mouth tasted sour and he was sweating a little. Not just because he was rapidly running out of time, either: even drunk and injured, Dean was dangerous, and if the boy got a whiff of what was coming, then Bobby was going to have a hell of a time subduing him.

But Dean only glanced up at him briefly, grin lopsided and wide, before ducking his head back down to the wings. “These’re great,” he announced. “Man, it’s good to be here, ‘stead of fifty freaking million miles off the ground in a tin can.”

Bobby grunted in agreement and shifted so that he was standing behind Dean. Adjusted his grip because he was really sweating now: nervous and guilty and pissed all at once and not sure what to do with any of it. He kept expecting Dean to turn and look at him, ask him what he thought he was trying to do, and Dean kept staring down at the table, docile and cooperative. Which was only making this harder, really.

“Sammy better take care of her,” Dean muttered. “If he puts one scratch on my baby, I’ll—”

Bobby leaned forward suddenly, left hand pulling Dean’s head to one side, right coming up to his neck. Slid the syringe in smoothly and thumbed the plunger down before Dean realized what was happening and shoved him away. The syringe spun out of Bobby’s hands and smashed against the wall, and then the table went over as Dean lumbered to his feet and turned around, one hand pressed against his throat.

“What the _fuck_ , Bobby?” he demanded. “What the he—” His eyes rolled back into his head and he followed the table down onto the floor.

Bobby scrubbed one shaking hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Dean.” Letting out a slow breath, he glanced at his watch again: ten minutes now. Damn it, he was cutting it close.

Leaving the shards of glass and the table where they were, he dragged Dean into the living room where he spent a few sweaty, heart-pounding minutes trying to prop him up in a chair before finally resorting to fastening the boy to the chair’s back with a length of rope. Cursed his clumsy hands when it took him at least another minute to tie the knots, and then dashed over to the cupboard and pulled down his book and a jar of scented oil.

Resolutely not looking at his watch, Bobby kicked an area of the floor clear and then knelt next to it. Took a piece of homemade chalk from one pocket and drew a rough circle, surrounding it with the symbols he’d memorized years ago. He hadn’t been certain he’d remember—it had been years since he’d last been stupid enough to try this—but it was all coming back with frightening clarity.

He considered stopping and just letting the time run out, but this was too important not to take the chance. He’d promised himself years ago, after John’s passing, that he’d take care of the boys. If it took dealing with this son of a bitch to do it, then that was just the price he had to pay. He’d paid worse.

Still, Bobby’s hands were shaking as he uncorked the oil and splashed it liberally around. Tipped the last few drops onto his fingertips and anointed himself before dropping the bottle and pushing it out of the way with one foot.

One minute.

He flipped open the book and read, words tumbling over each other. It wasn’t a language he’d ever learned, but he’d done this often enough that even now, after years of disuse, it had a familiar cadence—too familiar, really, but he’d made his own bed and now he had to lie in it. “— _lugal Anzu_ ,” he finished, and let the book fall beside him.

For a minute nothing happened, and Bobby thought that he’d been late after all, that he’d lost Dean’s trust—because once the boy woke up, there’d be hell to pay—for nothing, and that he’d lost an entire month besides: a month they could have spent fixing this pile of shit. His hands clenched and his stomach twisted in anger.

 _Damn it, John. Why the hell did you have to drag them into this fucked up life and then leave them unprotected? Why’d you have to bring them into this at all?_

He was about to turn away, get Dean out of the chair and into a bed to sleep it off, when a red cloud started unfolding inside the circle. Bobby swallowed and shifted a few steps back and to the side, moving to stand between John Winchester’s boy and the thing he’d summoned. The red continued to expand until it filled the area within the circle from floor to ceiling, and then it shrunk down, contracting and darkening into a familiar form. Bobby felt his face twitch.

“Robert Emory Singer. It’s been a while. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

“Pick another form,” Bobby said shortly.

Anzu grinned at him with John's face, its eyes red and hungry. “Now, Robert, you know that’s not how this works: I don’t chose the shape, you do. Or your passion—your _anger_ —does.” It glanced down at itself and chuckled. “John again, eh? What’s he done to piss you off this time?”

“Damn it!” Bobby did not want to deal with this right now. Looking at John’s face was like picking at an old, half-healed scab, and this thing knew it. Enjoyed it.

“You know, Robert,” Anzu said, leaning forward, “I end up in this form an awful lot. You wouldn’t be harboring any secret … _feelings_ ... for the man, now, would you?” It wiggled its eyebrows. “Or maybe there’s just something about John that brings out the desperation in you. Is that it? He pull you into another one of his fucked up missions?”

“I didn’t bring you here to shoot the shit.”

“Oooo, touchy subject.” It raised its hands in mock-surrender. “You know what I think, Robert?”

“I don’t really give a rat’s ass what you think.”

Anzu stretched John’s face into a wide grin. “He’s really pissed you off this time, hasn’t he? I can practically taste it, all that yummy rage. What’d he do, Robert? He fuck up on the job, get someone else killed? Or—” Realization dawned, drawing John’s eyebrows up comically high, and Bobby’s chest clenched as Anzu laughed. “Oh, brilliant! It’s those boys again, isn’t it?” It shook its head in mock dismay. “You always did have a soft spot for those two, Robert. It’ll get you killed some day, and then who will I have to talk to?”

“I need some information.” Best to get down to business. Ignore its taunts. Bobby should have known better than to let it draw him in, but it had been a while, and Anzu was cunning: always knew exactly which buttons to push.

“Of course you do,” Anzu agreed reasonably. “But you never get something for nothing in this world, Robert. And it’s been a long time. I’m hungry.” It licked its lips suggestively and Bobby averted his eyes.

“Two sheep and some living seer’s blood.” Frank owed him, and the man could spare a few pints for a good cause.

“I don’t know,” Anzu hedged, although Bobby could hear naked want in its voice. “I’d have to know what sort of information it is, first.”

Bobby nodded curtly and stepped to the side. Anzu’s face went slack suddenly as it caught sight of Dean, and the last time Bobby had seen John’s face like that, the man had been six sheets to the wind and had a leggy brunette in his lap. His stomach churned in disgust.

“Oh, Robert,” Anzu breathed, crowding up against the edge of the circle. “You’ve been holding out on me, you naughty boy.”

“I need to know what’s been done to him. Some of your kin got hold of him a few days back.”

“Not _my_ kin,” it said absently, hands stroking at the edges of its confinement. Damned thing was practically purring.

“Same difference,” Bobby answered, moving back in front of Dean. Anzu made a high, unhappy noise at the back of its throat and snaked its head around in a loose fashion John never would have been able to manage, trying to peer around Bobby’s body. Bobby squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. “You’ve seen him, and you’ve heard my question. Now do we have a bargain or not?”

“I’ve got a better bargain for you, Robert. Give me the man and I’ll give you the keys to this world. Riches, power, women—whatever you want. Anything.”

Bobby’s blood went instantly, suddenly cold. He’d known it was bad when Sam called him in, but … Anzu never offered anything unless forced into it, and even then it did so grudgingly. And he’d never seen it look so ravenous, all of its attention narrowed and focused on the unconscious man behind him. _Don’t freeze up, damn it; use it. Thing’s distracted, see if you can get it talking._

“Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual. “What’s so special about him? He’s just one man.”

Anzu scoffed, but its attention was still past Bobby, riveted, and it was a half-hearted noise. “Stupid human. You creatures never know what you have.” It tore its eyes away from Dean with obvious effort. Turned a hungry, pleading gaze on Bobby. “Anything, Robert. Power beyond your wildest dreams. Knowledge—the secrets of the universe laid out at your feet. Just …” It pressed against the edge of the circle, steam snaking up from the contact. Had to hurt like hell, but Anzu didn’t seem to notice.

Okay, information or not, this was getting further out of hand than Bobby wanted. “You don’t get him,” he said loudly, stepping closer.

“We can share him,” Anzu offered quickly. “We could—I’m fair—I’ve always been fair.” Its eyes glowed too brightly to meet. “You could be a god, Robert.”

Damn it, what in the name of Jesus H. Christ had Dean gotten himself into? Bobby thought quickly, reviewing his options, and then said, voice light, “Thanks, but I’ve seen what happens to washed up demigods.”

“I won’t always be like this,” Anzu hissed. “I could be great again. There would be blood—rivers of life, all for me.” It shuddered in ecstasy and Bobby stepped back, his skin crawling in disgust. It watched him go, and then its eyes slid past him again, the need there heavy and sharp. “He could give me that. He could give _us_ that. I can be generous. Yes, I can be generous _and_ fair.”

“Why do you want him so much?”

“Fool,” Anzu spat. “Blind and fat and old and stupid. Can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”

“Help me out then,” Bobby said, trying for meekness and hearing the tremor in his voice. _Nobody here but us chickens, officer._

“Yes. Yes, just—just wash away your lines and let me out. I’ll tell you—tell you everything. Show you the world. And then I—we—can …”

“You can what?”

“ _Ascend_.” And it shuddered again. “What they won’t pay for him, what they won’t give …”

“Who?” Bobby demanded. God, so close to the answers he wanted—desperately _needed_ , if things were this serious.

Anzu licked its lips, rocking back on its heels suddenly. “Oh, no. Not yet. Have to let me out first. I see you, Robert. I see your lying, deceitful ways.”

Bobby hesitated, wondering if there was some way to drag some more information out of the thing, and then gave it up as a lost cause. The thing had cottoned to his intent; it would have even sooner if it hadn’t been so distracted by Dean.

“I’d sooner see him dead than hand him over to you.”

John’s shape shattered into red smoke and a piercing scream of rage filled the room. Bobby risked a glance at Dean, but the drugs were doing their work, and the boy was still unconscious. Clouds of crimson foamed and boiled inside the circle, and the voice that called out to Bobby was different than the one Anzu used when in human form: old, vile, and dripping venom.

**“They will burn you alive, Robert Emory Singer, and they will suck the marrow from your bones.”**

“Maybe they will,” Bobby shouted back. “But I’ll still be better off than you, you washed up has-been!”

Rips of black sliced through the red and Bobby backed up further, heart pounding in his chest. Much more of this and his ticker would put him out of his misery long before ‘they’ so much as touched him.

**“Gut you burn you skin you drink you down.”**

“Threaten me all you want: you’re not getting him. Now are we gonna make a deal here, or are you gonna spend all night throwing tantrums?”

The red cloud imploded into human form again: John’s face staring at him, twisted with rage. “They’re not threats, you fool; they’re promises. You’re playing with lightning, Robert, and it’s going to fry you up. Going to burn you dry.” It smiled suddenly, wide and open, and it _looked_ like John, easy-going and sympathetic. Except for the burning, red eyes, and the growling hunger there. “Let me help you. I’ll take him off your hands; they’ll never even know he was here. Scout’s honor.” It held up two fingers, head tilting ironically.

“No.”

“Fine. You want to know just how much shit you’ve landed yourself in? Then tell me his name.”

That startled a laugh out of Bobby. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because it’s my price.” Anzu shrugged, a surprisingly human gesture. “The answers you seek for a name. Bargain of the century.”

“You think I’d be stupid enough to give you a hold on him like that?” Bobby snorted.

“You gave me _your_ name, Robert Emory Singer.”

“Yeah, I did,” Bobby admitted. “And I’ve been regretting it ever since.”

“Aw, hell, Bobby! We’ve had some good times, ain’t we?” And it wasn’t just wearing John’s face now: bastard was using his voice too.

Bobby resisted the urge to banish it _right now_. He couldn’t—not yet, not until he knew he’d squeezed every last drop of information that he could out of the damned thing.

“You think I don’t know that the only reason you haven’t come for me yet is because of this?” He tapped his chest, where the protective sigil was tattooed into him. Re-inked every year to keep the spell fresh.

“Oh, I don’t know that I would have, Robert. You’re far too amusing.” Anzu’s gaze returned to Dean, the boy pulling it in like some kind of magnet. “His _name_ , Robert.”

“I’m gonna tell you this once more and that’s it,” Bobby said firmly. “You don’t get him. You don’t get any part of him. Not his body, not his blood, and sure as _hell_ not his damned name!”

Something flickered across Anzu’s face and submerged. “Anger is such an ugly emotion, Robert.”

“Fuck you.” But his voice trembled. He didn’t like that expression, whatever it had been.

“Oh yes, you’re angry. But not at me. Mmm … yourself, yes: healthy dose of that, but … someone else, too. And I have to ask myself again, Robert, why exactly I’m wearing this sack of skin.” Anzu chuckled. Glanced down at itself and then back up at Dean, eyes shrewd. “That’s one of them, isn’t it? One of John’s boys.”

Bobby’s stomach plummeted through the floor. Shit. Too dangerous to rummage for more information now that it was so close. He had to get rid of it before things deteriorated further. The banishment charm was on his lips as soon as he’d thought of it, words coming easily. But instead of evaporating back into nothingness, Anzu just grinned at him.

“Which one is it?” it asked. “Samuel or Dean?”

Bobby shouted the charm again, concentrating to make sure that he didn’t mispronounce anything or leave out a word, and this time Anzu tossed back its head and laughed. Winked at him, lifting one hand and curling it into a fist.

The air rushed out of Bobby’s lungs, leaving him feeling hollow and light-headed. He gasped, trying to breathe, trying to figure out how the hell it was managing that. The charm should have banished it, the sigil should have protected him …

“You didn’t actually think that you could banish me, did you? You didn’t think that childish protection spell of yours worked? After you gave me your true name?” Anzu leaned forward as Bobby sank to his knees, but was careful to stay inside the circle. “I could have killed you any time, Robert Emory Singer.”

It dropped its hand and the air rushed back into Bobby’s lungs. He drew in deep, grateful breaths, mind racing. Fucked, he was so fucked. “Why … didn’t you … then?”

“I told you; you’re amusing. And useful, it seems now.” A lingering glance at Dean left no question as to what it meant by that.

“You can’t touch him,” Bobby said, staggering back to his feet. “The circle still holds you, and you can’t reach outside it. Not without his name.”

“I know one of them,” Anzu pointed out. “And the other two _you_ are going to give me.”

“Go ahead and guess, you’re so clever.” Bobby choked out a laugh as the thing glared at him coldly. “Yeah, don’t want to guess wrong and get your ass dragged back to the Abyss, do you?”

“I’ll kill you, Robert, amusing as you are. Don’t think I won’t. There’s nothing I won’t do, not for this.”

“Go ahead, then. I’m not selling him out.” He’d die first. He’d let this thing drag him down to whatever hell it had crawled out of before he told it Dean’s name.

Anzu’s mouth thinned, looking like John at his most annoyed. “You won’t, will you? Stubborn.” It smiled wolfishly. “No matter. I think I can manage with one name. What did you do to keep him under, give him human drugs?” Catching the guilty twinge of Bobby’s jaw, it nodded. “I thought so.”

Then it turned its attention on Dean, eyes bleeding from red to a wounded, dark brown. “Winchester,” it called, and its voice slipped lower, into John’s heavy rumble. “Wake up, Winchester.”

Dean opened his eyes, expression disoriented: confused. Then he saw Anzu standing there with his father’s face and his breath caught. “Dad?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Dad?”

“Don’t tell it your name!” Bobby shouted, and Dean turned his head to see the man drop to his knees with a grunt of pain. He moved to get up and found he couldn’t. Tied to another chair. It’d be really nice if people stopped drugging him and tying him to the furniture.

“Don’t look at him, son: it’s not Bobby.”

Dean glanced back up at his father, trying to force some coherent thoughts through the pile of mush masquerading as his brain. Dad was gazing at him steadily, warmly, and God that _hurt_. But why … Dean almost choked on the bitter bile that rose in his throat along with the realization.

“You’re not my dad,” he ground out.

“That’s the drugs talking, son—”

Dean’s smile felt like acid on his lips. “My dad’s dead.”

The thing wearing his father’s face went still suddenly, all the animation draining out of it. It blinked once and its eyes were red like blood. “Smart boy.” Its voice was suddenly deeper, more grating. It glanced at Bobby and its mouth tightened angrily. “Tricky, foolish man.”

Bobby jerked beneath its gaze, his face going white with pain. His mouth opened. Nothing came out, but Dean could tell that he was trying to scream.

“Stop it!” Dean shouted, jerking on the ropes. His abused muscles cried out in protest, but the binding gave a little around his arms. Bobby obviously hadn’t expected him to be awake, because the man knew how to tie better knots than this. Hell, he’d taught Dean to tie better knots than this. And if Bobby hadn’t expected him to be awake, then maybe … Yeah, his pocketknife was still in his back pocket. Okay, he could work with this. Dean started fishing for the knife with careful fingers.

“Why protect him?” the thing wearing his father’s face asked. “He drugged you. He was going to give you to _them_.”

And Dean knew without a moment’s doubt what it meant by that: to _them_ , to the demons. Back to that basement in San Francisco, in Lawrence, in God knew how many other towns and cities. Different places, but they were all the same in the end, weren’t they? Because when you stripped away everything else, what you were left with was a single Basement: walls soaked with his blood, air choked with his screams. His flesh ripping, his voice giving out. Tied to a chair, chained to a wall, held down on a table by a whispered command. Different rooms, different assholes standing over him, same fucking basement.

Dean’s skin flushed cold for the first time since they’d poured that brown crap down his throat. “That’s my problem,” he said slowly.

It was lying about Bobby: it had to be. And if it wasn’t, then as soon as Dean was free, he’d kill Bobby himself. _No, I can’t. I swore._ But he wasn’t going back there, either. He wasn’t letting the demons get their hands on him again. He refused to let himself think about it. Focused instead on his hands as he fumbled the pocket knife open and twisted it to start sawing on the ropes.

“I could help.” It smiled at him, sly in a way that his father never had been. “I could free you, take you out of here.”

“Thanks, but I think I can manage on my own.” Why wasn’t it coming any closer? Why wasn’t it attacking him? Dean scanned the floor around it and noticed the chalk circle: the quickly scribbled symbols. Ancient Sumerian mystical crap, if Dean was identifying it correctly. He wished for a split second that Sam were there: kid had always been better at remembering this kind of shit.

“I can tell you why all this is happening to you.”

Dean’s hands stilled in mid-slice at the ropes. If he could find out why the demon had decided to shit all over his parade—what it had done—then he could keep it from using him to get to Sam. He could figure out how to undo whatever they’d done to him. He regarded the thing in his Dad’s form, turning his options over in his head. Forced himself to resume working on the ropes, because even if he was going to make a deal here, he wasn’t going to be helpless and tied to a chair while he did it.

“Can you tell me what they did to me?” he asked.

“Yes.” It crowded up to the edge of the circle, staring at Dean like some kind of junkie looking to score its next fix.

“And you’ll tell me in return for what?” Dean could see Bobby shaking his head wildly out of the corner of his eye and ignored him. The man couldn’t drug Dean and tie him to a chair and then expect to tell him what choices to make.

Its smile was wide: a salesman’s smile. “Just your name.”

 _Don’t tell it your name_. That had been the first—the only—thing Bobby had said. But he could he trust the man who’d rammed a needle in his throat and then tied him to a chair? Could he trust the man who had obviously called this thing here? Dean looked over at Bobby, whose mouth was tight in pain, and Bobby looked back at him, his cap askew and his eyes frantic.

 _He holds up his arm, surprised by the blood welling up in a long, thin line. He was climbing on one of the junkers in the yard and Sammy shouted something up to him and he turned to answer and fell. Cut his arm on a jagged piece of metal on the way down. There’s more blood now, rivers of it, and now Dean’s starting to actually_ feel _it, but Sammy’s already crying enough for the both of them so Dean just picks himself up and wanders over to the garage where Bobby’s working on a Ford pickup. He stands in the doorway until Bobby notices him and looks up, and then he says, “I think I need some stitches.” And Bobby sprints over, knocking tools everywhere as he goes, to scoop Dean up in his arms. Shoves him in one of the few working cars and drives him seventy miles an hour to the nearest hospital. And Bobby’s got the same look on his face the entire way._

The same look Dean was seeing now.

He turned his eyes back on the thing wearing his father’s face and grinned humorlessly at it. “Fuck you,” he said, and sliced through the last of the ropes with a sharp movement.

The thing snarled when Dean stood up and hobbled over to Bobby on unsure legs. His head was still spinning from whatever Bobby had given him, and he misjudged the distance when he tried to squat next to the man. Ended up sprawled out on the floor instead, right knee throbbing painfully.

“Tell me or he dies,” the thing in the circle hissed from behind him.

Dean ignored it. “How do I get rid of it?” he asked Bobby, righting himself. “You got something here I can use?”

Bobby kicked a book lying spine-up by his feet and Dean grabbed for it. Flipped it open, scanned a few pages and ground his teeth in frustration. “This is in _Sumerian_ , Bobby!”

Gasping for air, Bobby rolled his shoulders in a hitched shrug: _what can you do, man?_ His eyes rolled up in his head, which meant that Dean was running out of time.

Dean pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the thing’s taunts and demands and lurched across the room. Dug around behind a stack of books for the bottle of holy water he knew Bobby kept there. Maybe it wouldn’t kill the demon, or exorcize it, but it would hurt like hell. Maybe get it to let go of Bobby for a few minutes.

Dean unscrewed the cap and sloshed the water across the room in a wide arc, soaking the thing in the circle. It grinned at him with his father’s face, hair plastered to its skull and shirt dripping. Dean felt the moisture in his mouth evaporate, and his heartbeat stuttered.

“Whoops,” the thing mocked. “Good try, Winchester, but I’m not a demon. Holy water doesn’t work on me. Know what it does do, though?” It stepped forward, through the circle, and sighed happily. “Washes away chalk.”

Dean took a step back, glancing around for a weapon, and then it was on him. Curled both hands around his throat and lifted him off the floor. It was taller now, and growing every second. His father’s face was distorting: aging, sinking.

“You’re mine now, human,” it crowed. “Who needs your name when I’ve got your body? They’ll pay for you, Winchester. For _you_ they’ll give me back the world.”

Everything snapped into place suddenly. _Sam. It thinks I’m Sam._ Dean gritted his teeth and wrapped his own hands around the thing’s wrists, trying to tug its hands away from his throat. It laughed at him.

“You’ll thank me, Winchester. It’s easier this way. You would have ended up there eventually anyway, and my way?” Its smile widened, teeth long and pointed. “My way leaves you with at least a shred of your sanity intact. You should get down on your knees and worship me for this.”

“Fuck … you …” he ground out.

“There’s the spirit.” It chuckled. “Go ahead, play the big hero. I haven’t been this amused in centuries.”

“Go back … to wherever the … hell you … came from … and leave … me alone.”

It blinked at him with a face that no longer looked anything like his father’s—too pointed and stretched to be human at all—and then frowned. “No, you can’t,” it whispered, voice threaded with shock. Fury warred with surprise those boiling red eyes, and then its hands were dissolving from around Dean’s throat. It was melting into a red mist, folding in on itself until it disappeared completely with an echoing thunderclap.

Lying on the floor by Dean’s feet, Bobby took in a deep gulp of air. Dean hesitated for a second—it was gone, but how and why, and was it coming back?—and then shoved the questions away and dropped next to Bobby.

“You okay?” he asked.

Bobby’s face was bright red, and he was coughing, but he managed a nod.

“Good.” And Dean cocked back his right fist and punched the man into unconsciousness.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a kind of poetic justice, tying Bobby to the same chair he’d tied Dean to. Of course, Dean was a lot more careful when it came to tying his knots, and he slapped Bobby back to consciousness instead of summoning up some kind of hell-beast as an alarm clock, but he figured it was close enough to count.

“Dean,” Bobby groaned. He shifted and then glanced down at himself. Smiled slightly. “Guess I deserve this. You okay?”

Dean smirked. “Gee, Bobby; I’ve been drugged and tied up and almost fed to a demon wearing my dad’s face, what do you think?”

Bobby winced. “Anzu’s not a demon. Sumerian demigod.”

“Wasn’t noticing much of a difference myself.” Dean dragged up another chair and straddled it, leaning his elbows on the back. One of Bobby’s knives dangled loosely from one hand. “Start talking, or I start putting holes in you.” It made him sick to his stomach to even think about doing something like that, but he’d done it before, hadn’t he?

 _Skin parts smooth if you keep your knives sharp, like silk. Keep them hydrated, work with slow, shallow cuts to make it last, make them beg._ Yeah, he’d done it before. And he’d do it again, if it meant finding out something that could protect Sam.

Bobby glanced at the knife and scoffed. He didn’t understand Dean wasn’t bluffing because he didn’t know what Dean had done: what he was. “I wasn’t gonna turn you over to it,” Bobby said. “I just wanted information. Anzu isn’t a god anymore but it still knows things. I thought I could ask it what they did to you: how to help.”

It had a ring of truth to it, but Dean only flipped the knife across his knuckles, feeling the weight of it. It wouldn’t be any heavier if he drove it into Bobby’s side, but it would feel heavier. It would feel like he’d dipped it in lead instead of blood. _Keep it together, Winchester._ He forced himself to be still, to keep his eyes cold.

“And where exactly does sticking a needle in my neck come in?”

“I was working with a deadline; couldn’t wait for you to pass out. If I missed tonight, it would’ve been a month before I could try again.”

“Still not hearing an explanation for you drugging me.” _God, Bobby, give me a reason not to cut you. Please._

Still not paying any attention to the knife Dean was tossing back and forth between his hands, Bobby demanded, “If I hadn’t, would you have let me summon it?”

Hell no. Dean had had enough of gods and demons and angels to last him about a hundred lifetimes. He felt his lips twist in a hard smile and his grip tightened on the knife handle. “Maybe not, but that was my call, Bobby, not yours.”

“You and Sam called me in for help on this, Dean,” Bobby barked back, and Dean’s muscles sang with the tension of holding himself still. Of waiting. He forced himself to listen as Bobby continued, “I’m not gonna let something happen to you boys just because you’re a little squeamish when it comes to the grey area.”

“Looked pretty damned black to me back there,” Dean growled, but he had heard the concern in Bobby’s voice, and he felt his grip on the knife loosening.

Bobby squared his jaw. “I’m sorry things got so out of hand, but it was worth it. Anzu wanted you, Dean: wanted you bad. Seemed to think you’re important.”

 _Sam_ , Dean remembered. _It thought I was Sam._ He slid his thumb along the flat of the blade, frowning at the thought of Sam somewhere on the road from San Francisco to Lawrence. Alone. Unprotected. “Did it say why?” he asked.

“Just that something out there would pay to get its hands on you: something powerful, from the sound of it.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed and he inclined his head forward. “You got any idea why that might be? _What_ that might be?” Digging for whatever Dean hadn’t told him before. Digging for blood and death and feathers.

Dean tapped the knife against the back of the chair, considering. He could either trust Bobby, could believe that the man had been acting with his best interests at heart, or he could carve him up from the outside in, try to find out what he knew. Or he could leave him here, tied to the chair. Meet up with Sam and run until whatever the demons had done caught up with him. Caught up with Sam.

Dean cut a sliver of wood out of his chair, watched it curl off and fall down to the floor. His limbs felt heavy all of a sudden, and all he wanted to do was lay down and give up, but … He couldn’t leave Sam. Had to protect him from whatever was coming, at any cost. And the cold truth of the matter was that Bobby was worth more as an ally than as a bloody lump of flesh.

“It thought I was Sam,” Dean said finally. His eyes were steady, measuring Bobby’s reaction. If the man looked as though he were panicking, as though he was going to turn into a threat to Sam, then Dean was going to end him, useful or not. Old friend or not.

But Bobby only looked puzzled. “Sam?” He furrowed his brow. “Why would you think that?”

“Because of that psychic stuff,” Dean said, and it felt funny saying it out loud. “The visions. It's somehow connected to the demon. Damned thing wants him for something. It’s why those demons grabbed me back in Frisco: they’re trying to use me to get at him.”

He was watching for disbelief, for horror or concern, but Bobby only stared back at him steadily. Dean was sourly amused by the idea of the two of them circling each other like old, worn out pitbulls. “You don’t seem all that surprised,” he noted.

“Doesn’t take a genius to figure out those things wanted something from one of you, way they’ve been following you around.”

Dean blinked and shifted his grip on the knife. “Then why the hell did you ask me why I thought it wanted Sam? You must have figured out that it mixed—”

“Demigods, even demoted ones, don’t make mistakes, Dean.” Bobby shook his head and relaxed against the back of the chair. “It knew who you were: knew _what_ you were even if it didn’t know your name.”

Dean snorted. “I’m just a foot soldier, Bobby. Sammy’s the heavy guns.”

Bobby only shook his head again, mouth turned down unhappily. “You can tell yourself that as much as you want and it won’t change things.” He hesitated and then added, “Dean, if you want me to help, then you need to tell me what’s going on. I know there’s something you’re holding back, and it might—”

“It’s got nothing to do with this.” Dean’s voice sounded harsh in his own ears and he pressed his eyes shut briefly before adding, more calmly, “It’s taken care of.” He glanced down at the knife in his hand. Pressed the tip of it into the chair.

It had been taken care of, all right, because Azrael was dead. Dean’s shoulder blades were unmarked. It was finished. It had to be finished.

When Dean looked back up, Bobby’s face was guileless: his eyes concerned. “I hope to God you’re right,” he said, “Because if this thing comes around and bites you in the ass, it’s gonna catch Sam too.”

Dean flinched and pushed the knife deeper into the chair. Wood cut differently than flesh: it was harder, took more effort to push inside. But then again it was easier, too. “Sam knows. He agrees with me.” _Except for the part where he’s checking into that angle right now._

Dean pushed the thought away and rose smoothly to his feet. He was beginning to feel like an ass sitting here having a conversation with Bobby while the man was tied to a chair. He wasn’t going to use the knife in his hand, not on Bobby. Not today, anyway. The man was misguided, and had been incredibly stupid to call on something like Anzu, but he was still a friend.

 _And how long is he gonna stay that way once he finds out what you’ve done?_ a nasty voice in Dean’s head piped up. _Because he_ will _find out, if not sooner then later. And when he knows what you’ve done—what you are—how long before he turns on you and shoots you down like a rabid dog?_

Dean licked his lips, thinking of Sam and Azrael and the blood he’d waded through to find his way back to his brother. He wondered, when that day finally came, whether he’d even bother trying to fight back.

 _Coward_ , the voice whispered.

Dean ignored it and used the knife to cut Bobby free.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sam pulled up to Missouri’s, he just slammed his foot on the brake instead of downshifting normally. Took bitter satisfaction in the coughing stall of the engine. Screw the Impala. And screw Dean, too. Dean with his phone calls and his condescension and his overprotective need to keep Sam in the dark on everything.

 _Just ran into a few bumps, Sammy. Nothing to worry about, but, uh, be careful, okay? ... Nothing happened ... I'm fine, dude, chill. Just had an interesting conversation ... No, not with Bobby … Tell you when you get here._

And then the bastard had hung up and wouldn’t answer when Sam tried calling back. Bobby wasn’t picking up either, probably on pain of Dean bitching him to death. Sam realized that he was twisting his hands around the steering wheel and made himself get out of the car. When he glanced up at the house, Missouri was on the front steps, one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes.

Sam’s anger slipped a little as he remembered the last circumstances under which he’d seen her. Colorado. Dean sleeping in the bed next to them with wings tattooed across his shoulders. Black wings coating freckles and pale skin like a bloodstain. Learning what had marked his brother. Learning Azrael’s name.

Since that night in the barn, Sam had suggested visiting Missouri once or twice, but Dean’s eyes always went distant at the mention of her name, the same way they did whenever Sam brought up Ann. Missouri and Ann: the two women who knew more about Dean than he would have liked. Who knew about Azrael, and what it had done to Dean. Who had saved his life, and might be able— _God, if you can hear me, please yes_ —to do so again.

“Sam,” Missouri said as he came up the steps. “It’s good to see you.” There was gray in her hair, and more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth than Sam remembered, but her smile was warm and welcoming, and her grip was strong as she pulled him into a hug. Sam had barely gotten his own arms up before Missouri was pulling back with a little gasp, hand going to her chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asked urgently, reaching for her arm. “Should I call an ambu—”

“No,” Missouri gasped out. “I’m fine; I just wasn’t prepared.” Her eyes were moist as she looked up at him. “Oh, _Sam_.” A tear spilled down her cheek and she sniffed, wiping it away with the back of one hand.

Sam frowned in concern. “Hey, what’s wrong? If I can help—”

“Don’t be silly.” Missouri laughed a little. “I told you, I’m fine; it’s you boys I’m worried about. How you manage to get into so much trouble, I don’t know.” She stepped back, pushing the door open. “Come in off the porch. I have some bourbon in the kitchen. I could use a drink, and you’re gonna need one once you hear what I have to say.”

“Why, what—”

“Not here.” She led him in and forced him to sit at the kitchen table, ignoring all of his attempts to get her to tell him what was going on. Making him more and more nervous as he watched her move around the kitchen, her eyes dark with knowledge. Sam was itching to bolt by the time she sank down across from him and shoved a full glass of bourbon at him.

“Missouri, please,” he said, folding his hands around the glass.

She nodded and took a deep drink from her own glass before finally saying, “When I touched you, I saw Dean.”

Oh, right. Maybe he should have prepared her for his memories: for the sight of Dean convulsing and helpless. Because Sam had had a few days to get used to the image and it still made him feel weak and sick. Still, that didn’t explain why she’d thought that _he’d_ need a stiff drink.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I should have warned you about Dean: what it was like. But I still don’t understand why you thought I was gonna need this.” He tipped the glass at her.

“Sam, you’re not following my meaning.” Missouri leaned forward, lips turned down in thought. “When I touched you,” she said slowly, “I found myself being drawn through you and into your brother. I heard him like he was standing in front of me.” She shook her head. “Sometime since the last time I saw you, something connected you boys.”

“Connected?” Sam’s pulse jumped a little and he tightened his grip on the glass. “Connected how?”

“Here.” She tapped his chest. “Do you have any idea how that happened?”

Sam wasn’t exactly sure what Missouri was driving at, but he already knew that he didn’t really want to know. Still, her question felt important, so he ran his mind back over the last few years. He and Dean hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, hadn’t run into anything too exotic. Not since … Sam sucked in a breath, remembering.

“That ritual I told you about, the one we used to stop Azrael. Could it have done this?” Whatever ‘this’ was.

Missouri’s eyes were sharp. “Maybe. Can you remember the words you used?”

“Um. Not really.” Sam unlocked one hand from around the glass and used it to rub the bridge of his nose as he thought. “Something about him protecting me. Breath, blood and bone, I think. Til death do us part and all that.”

Missouri winced. “Oh, honey, you two aren’t just connected. You … well, if I’m understanding this right, you _own_ Dean on a spiritual level.”

Sam’s stomach tightened and he felt a cold splash on his fingers as his hand shook. “What? No, I—”

“Drink that before you spill it all over my table,” Missouri ordered. She glared at him until he had forced a mouthful down his throat and then softly added, “Denying it isn’t going to change things, Sam.”

“But Dean’s a person!” Sam burst out, slamming the glass back down on the table. He was hollow inside—numb—but he could feel the guilt waiting on the other side of his shock. “He’s my _brother_. I can’t own him.”

“Maybe ‘own’ isn’t the right word.” Missouri leaned across the table and wrapped her hand around Sam’s wrist, closing her eyes. Listening. Then she sat back and nodded. “No, it isn’t ownership.”

Something in Sam’s chest loosened and he took another swig of bourbon. “What the hell is it, then? What did I do to him?”

“You haven’t done anything to him, Sam. This isn’t your fault.”

“How the hell can you say that?” He blinked, his eyes watering and burning. “I dug up that ritual with Ann, I decided to do it, I—”

“You saved his life—maybe even his soul.” Missouri shook her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sam. You did everything right.”

“This isn’t right,” Sam argued. His throat felt hot and tight. “ _Owning_ your brother isn’t right.”

“I told you I was wrong to use that word. The relationship between you and Dean is …” She pursed her lips, considering, and then finished, “It’s closer to the kind of relationship a parent has with his child.”

Sam choked out a laugh. “Great. Missouri, I can’t … I can’t take care of Dean like that. I’ll mess it up, I’ll—”

“Actually, _Dean_ would be the parent half of the relationship.” Missouri’s lips quirked up in a slight smile. “He’s your guardian.”

Sam slouched back in his chair, scowling. Dean was going to love this. He tossed back the rest of the bourbon, relishing the burn in his throat.

Missouri refilled his glass and her expression sobered. “I’m sorry I had to tell you this now, Sam: you boys already have enough to deal with. But you can’t fix something if you don’t know anything’s wrong.”

Sam tapped the side of his glass moodily. “I’m not sure Dean would see this as a problem.”

Missouri tilted her head in agreement and took another sip from her own glass. “Maybe not. But I’m not certain how far this goes—how deeply you two are connected. I’d need to see both of you together to do that.”

“Dean …” Sam trailed off, and then ducked his head. He didn’t want to tell Missouri that Dean couldn’t even stand to hear her name. But he could see from the way her face softened that she already knew.

“I know he’s not real eager to see me, Sam,” she said. “And I understand, but this can’t be helped. You didn’t mean for it to happen, but now that it has, it can be a weakness or an advantage. What you make of it is up to you and Dean.”

Sam stared into his bourbon. Tried to imagine telling Dean what had happened. What it meant. Pictured telling Dean that they needed Missouri’s help to figure out what to do about it. Yeah, that was going to be a real fun conversation. He sighed. “Dean’s going to hate this.”

“Seeing me is the least of Dean’s problems,” Missouri pointed out softly.

“Yeah.” Sam shook himself and tossed back the second glass. Then reached out and poured himself another before Missouri could do it for him. He swirled the liquor absently before setting the bottle back on the table and looking up at Missouri. “So how much did you see?”

Missouri’s expression darkened as she topped off her own glass. “Enough that I’ll be sleeping with the lights on tonight.”

“Do you know ...” Sam hesitated and then continued, “Dean called me a few hours ago. Something happened when he got to Bobby’s, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Did you see—” He swallowed. “Do you know what happened?”

Missouri nodded, and her eyes crinkled in anger. “That friend of yours is a damn fool. He summoned up something foul and tried to question it. Things got out of hand, but it’s gone now.”

 _Bobby_? Bobby _summoned_ something? “Is Dean okay?” Sam asked anxiously.

“He’s fine, Sam. Or as fine as he was the last time you saw him. He’s worried about you.”

He clenched his jaw. Stupid, stubborn bastard. “I know.”

“Whatever that thing your friend summoned was—some sort of demigod, far as I can tell—it wanted Dean for some reason. _He_ seems to think it mistook him for you.”

Sam grimaced and took another swallow of bourbon. “But you don’t think so,” he said.

“I’m not sure,” Missouri admitted. “There are forces at work here that I don’t understand. I’m just a psychic, Sam. Demons are a little outside of my league.”

“And angels?”

Missouri heaved a deep breath, toying with her own glass. “I know you came here because you think that this has something to do with Azrael, but … I just don’t know, Sam. From what you’ve told me, Azrael is dead. Human, dead, and damned to Hell. It shouldn’t be any different from any other evil soul down there.”

“But?” Sam prodded, leaning forward. “There’s a ‘but’, isn’t there?”

“ _But_ it does concern me that these demons mentioned Azrael’s name. They may have done it simply because they knew it would hurt Dean, but I can’t rule out the chance that there isn’t more to it than that. I just don’t know enough, Sam; I’m sorry.”

Disappointment lodged heavy and sharp in Sam’s chest, but he forced himself to nod. “It’s okay. I appreciate everything you’re doing. And I called Ann, too. Maybe she’ll turn something up.”

Missouri smiled fondly. “Ann’s a good woman. I’m glad you two have kept in touch. She says you visit like clockwork every four months.”

Sam sat back, surprised. He was starting to feel loose and lightheaded from the bourbon. “I didn’t know you two talked.”

“She called me a few years ago to thank me for pointing you in her direction. We’ve chatted a few times since then.” Missouri paused and then said, “She’ll do right by you, Sam. God knows why, but she seems to have taken a liking to you boys.”

Sam felt his lips twitch. “No accounting for taste.”

Missouri chuckled. “Or good sense.” A silence fell between them, souring the brief levity, and then Missouri offered him a gentle smile. Reached across the table and patted his hand. “You beat Azrael, Sam. You can beat this too, whatever it is.”

Sam nodded, but he didn’t really believe her.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was dark, the only illumination pouring in from the waxing moon that shone through the windows. Sam stepped into Missouri’s kitchen and then stopped because someone was sitting at the table, and it wasn’t Missouri. A man, tall and heavy-limbed like a bear. Coal black hair, ruggedly handsome face. Sam had never seen the man before, but he knew who it was anyway. The eyes, yellow and sickly, gave it away.

“Sammy,” the demon greeted him, its voice a honey-soaked growl.

“I’m dreaming,” Sam mumbled.

The demon’s face split into a wide smile. “Smart boy.” It sat back and kicked its feet up on top of the table. “Pull up a chair, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said sharply, and the demon chuckled. It didn’t say anything else, just sat there with its hands in its lap, watching him. Sam considered turning to run and then remembered that this was a dream. He could run as far as he wanted, and it wouldn’t matter.

Body stiff, he sat down across from it. “What do you want?”

“Been a while. Thought I’d check in.” It dropped its feet back to the floor suddenly as it leaned forward. The smile slipped into mocking concern. “Say, how’s that brother of yours doing these days, Sammy?”

 _Dean_. Sam had forgotten, but the demon’s words brought everything back in a rush and his hands clenched into fists. “What the hell did you do to him?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that.”

“Take me,” Sam offered urgently. “If you want me, take me. Just leave Dean alone.”

“Mmm, tempting.” The demon licked its lips and then smiled. “But I’m gonna have to pass. You see, I already have you, Sammy. You just don’t know it yet.”

“You son of a bitch!” Sam slammed his hand down on the table and then froze, feeling something cancerous and hard push its way into existence inside his fist. He glanced down and there was a metal collar on the table, chain lead snaking across and into Sam’s hand. The demon leaned over and tapped his fingers, sending a shock through them. Sam’s hand fell open and the demon plucked the chain from his palm.

“How thoughtful.” It grinned, pulling the chain and collar across the table toward itself. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“What the hell is that?” Sam asked, mouth dry.

“This?” The demon ran one finger around the collar and the room filled with a brief, ringing whine. “Really, Sammy, I’m surprised. Haven’t you ever seen a collar before?” It stroked the metal absently. Eyes fixed on Sam, pinning him in place.

“Who’s it for?” But as soon as the words had left his lips, Sam knew. He knew even before the demon’s grin widened, and before it could say anything he ground out, “Fuck you; you’re not getting him.”

“Oh, I think I am. You see, I usually get what I want, and right now? Right now what I want includes Dean. Broken, bleeding, and kneeling at my feet. Can’t you just taste it? So beautifully lost, so hollow. He’ll welcome it, Sammy. He’ll beg for this, for what I can give him.”

“You’re wrong,” Sam insisted. “He’s going to kill you.”

“Maybe.” Its eyes bored intently into him, smile fading and hands stilled on the collar. “Maybe he _will_ kill me someday. But he’ll be my hound first, Sam. Your brother’s gonna make the world bleed, and I’ll be right behind him to lap up the blood.”

“Never. He wouldn’t. Not Dean.”

“Wouldn’t he? He’s no saint; he never was. How much blood does he already have on his hands? How many souls has he sent screaming into the dark?”

Sam exploded. “That wasn’t his fault, you basta—”

“ _Temper_ , Sam.” It smiled, sharp and sudden. Cruel. “You wouldn’t want to wake your little psychic friend. Cause I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not in the mood for a threesome.”

“I’ll kill you,” Sam threatened, dropping his voice. “I swear to God, I’ll kill you before you touch him again.”

“Oh, I don’t have to.” It chuckled, face beaming with good humor. “You’re going to do it for me.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” The demon shook its head. “I admire your determination, really I do, but you’re in over your head here. Take a little advice and relax. Enjoy the ride.”

“You don’t get him.” But his voice sounded desperate. The demon smirked at him and didn’t say anything. It didn’t have to. Its fingers caressing that damned collar were message enough. “I’ll kill him before I let you have him,” Sam whispered.

The demon hesitated, frowning. “Would you?” it asked. “ _Could_ you?”

“Yes.” He almost meant it. Almost.

The demon shook its head. “No, I don’t think so. Blood’s thicker than water, but with you Winchesters, it’s rock solid.” It grinned again, confidence restored. “Finally getting my hands on the two of you is gonna be real sweet, Sammy, but the fact that _you’re_ gonna be the one to deliver Dean to me? Priceless.”

No. Sam had betrayed Dean once before: had turned him over to Azrael. He wasn’t going to do it again. “Whatever you’re planning, I’m not going to do it,” he said.

“Oh, Sammy.” The demon smiled at him fondly. “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

A phone rang somewhere, distant, and the demon glanced up. Then it winked at Sam cheerfully. “You better take that. I’ll be seeing you real soon. Give my regards to your brother.”

It tossed back its head and laughed heartily, voice melting into a shrill ring. Sam was falling forward, falling across the table and down the demon’s throat. Its laughter was all around him: was in his bones. And then there was nothing but the dark, and the horrible certainty that the demon was right. That he wouldn’t be able to save Dean—not from the demon, but from himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam struggled free from the blanket that had twisted itself around him while he slept. He was upstairs in Missouri’s guest bedroom, and his phone was ringing. He scrubbed at his face with one hand and fumbled for the phone with the other.

“Hullo?” he mumbled groggily.

“Sam? Did I wake you?”

Sam blinked. “Ann.”

“No, seriously. You were still sleeping? At three in the afternoon?”

“Give me a break, Ann.” He pushed himself up in the bed, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the dream. Told himself that it was just a nightmare induced by stress: that it didn’t mean anything.

 _‘Haven’t you ever seen a collar before?’_

“Sorry. It’s just, uh, you sleep more than any three men I’ve ever met.”

“That’s because you only ever see me on vacation,” Sam grumbled. He swung his feet off the edge of the mattress and leaned over, elbows on his knees. “So I take it that you’re calling because you found something?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” Ann’s tone had shifted and Sam realized that she’d been postponing this with her teasing. Which meant it wasn’t anything he wanted to hear. That seemed to be happening a lot lately.

 _‘You see, I usually get what I want, and right now? Right now what I want includes Dean.’_

Sam let his breath out in a short, hard exhale. _Never, you hear me, you fucking asshole? Never._

“Sam, are you there?”

“I’m here. Look, whatever it is, you can just tell me, Ann.” _Tell me how to fix this._

“Okay, well, good news first: as far as I can tell, Azrael’s got a permanent cell in Hell. It’s part of the package when you’re eternally damned. The language Dean heard probably _was_ angelic, but that doesn’t mean Azrael had anything to do with it. Certain sects among the Fallen still use it in everyday speech, and most of Hell’s more powerful rituals do too. I’m talking earth-shaking, soul-altering stuff, here. Jury’s still out on which one of those shoes fits this particular problem.”

Okay, Azrael wasn’t involved, which was great, but the rest wasn’t fantastic. Sam hoped like hell that the yellow-eyed demon belonged to one of those conversational angelic sects, because the alternative was that they were neck-deep in some seriously bad shit.

 _‘Broken, bleeding, and kneeling at my feet.’_

Sam could see the demon’s wide, shit-eating grin in his mind and his chest clenched. “What else?” he asked hoarsely.

“The symbol you sent me is used in about fifty rituals that I know of, but I cross-referenced those with this idea of ‘opening’ that you mentioned and the number dropped down to fifteen. Five of those use angelic as a base language.”

“This is good, right? Narrowing it down?” But it wasn’t. He could tell from the sour taste of fear in his mouth. From the way he couldn’t get the dream out of his head, couldn’t keep himself from remembering.

 _‘Can’t you just taste it? So beautifully lost, so hollow.’_

“I’m getting there. Of those five, one is a counter-ritual used to unlock physical objects that have been sealed shut: chests or portals, things like that. So I think we can safely rule that one out, which leaves us with four viable options.”

There was the rustle of paper as Ann shifted through her notes and then she said, “The first is Kal Cthorak: used to open the subject’s mind. Demons typically use it on people with some kind of mental protection against telepathy, mind-control, or possession.”

“Okay.” That didn’t sound too bad. Sam was sure that they could find a way to fix something like that.

 _‘He’ll welcome it, Sammy.’_

He massaged his temples with one hand. Listening to that voice in his head was starting to give him a headache.

“The second’s called Rusi Matorum," Ann continued. "I’m not exactly sure what it does: the reference I have just says that it opens the subject to ‘his full potential’. My best guess is that by ‘potential’ they’re referring to abilities—things like your visions.”

“Dean doesn’t have anything like that,” Sam said.

“That we know of,” Ann counted instantly. “Anyway, the third’s Gioru Ztal. It’s basically the same as Kal Cthorak, except that instead of opening the mind, it opens the soul. Don’t ask me what that means, or what kind of effect it has, because I have no idea.”

Not so good. Souls weren’t something you wanted to mess around with, although Dean’s had already been through the wringer. First Azrael dragged its claws through it, and then Sam had gone and bought out some kind of lease on it. _He’s been through enough, damn it._

 _‘He’ll beg for this, for what I can give him.’_

“What’s the fourth?” Sam asked, getting up and going over to close the blinds: the light was doing nothing for his blooming migraine.

“Tebrutri Denir,” Ann answered, her voice slow and reluctant. “Affectionately referred to as Satan’s Kiss. It—Sam, the ritual is supposed to turn a human into an open portal to Hell. Kind of like a conduit for infernal power. It’s one of the demons' outreach programs, trying to establish Hell on Earth. So far, everyone they’ve tried it on has died. Human bodies aren’t made to channel that much energy.”

“So we can rule that one out,” Sam said when Ann fell silent. “Dean’s not dead.” Golden eyes hazed in his vision, intent and serious.

 _‘Maybe he_ will _kill me someday. But he’ll be my hound first, Sam.’_

“Maybe. Or maybe it just hasn’t been activated yet. None of these rituals works instantaneously, Sam. There’s a trigger: some set of circumstances that needs to be fulfilled.”

“So if we find out what the trigger is, we can keep anything from happening?” he asked hopefully.

“If it’s something you can avoid. Because it might be set to activate after a certain number of days, or the next time it rains. I wish I could be comforting here, Sam, but the hard truth is that demons aren’t going to go through the trouble of setting up a major ritual like this and then set an obscure trigger.”

“I know,” Sam breathed. He leaned his forehead against the window and the blinds pressed into his skin. They were pleasantly cool: comforting.

 _‘Your brother’s gonna make the world bleed, and I’ll be right behind him to lap up the blood.’_

“And you have to remember that these aren’t the only possibilities,” Ann was reminding him. “These are just the rituals I know about: the ones Mom had sources on. There are probably hundreds—maybe even thousands—that she'd never heard of. Or this could be something completely new. Without a complete transcript of the words, and a list of the other symbols used, we just can’t know.”

“Do you—”

 _‘He’s no saint; he never was.’_

A sudden lump in Sam's throat cut off his words and he swallowed. His eyes were hot: prickly. "Can you guess?"

“Oh, hell, Sam. I don’t know, pick one. Your guess is as good as mine at this point. If I were you, I’d hope that it was Rusi Matorum. That seems to be the least harmful. But you’re right: it’s not very likely, seeing as Dean’s never shown any signs that he has that kind of potential. After that, you’re gonna want it to be Kal Cthorak.”

“I don’t get to choose here, Ann,” Sam said tightly.

 _‘How much blood does he already have on his hands?’_

Too much. More than he should, damn it.

Sam didn’t realize that he was crying until he heard Ann’s voice, soft and full of regret, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

 _Not as sorry as I am._ He pushed away from the window, pacing the room and wiping furiously at his eyes with one hand.

 _‘How many souls has he sent screaming into the dark?’_

Not fair. It wasn’t fair: nothing good ever happened to Dean, not since he was four and Dad had shoved Sam into his arms. And it was never Dean’s fault; it was Dad’s, or Sam’s. Between the two of them, they had done their best to ruin him.

Sam bared his teeth in a grimace. _That stops here. It stops right fucking now._

“Look,” he croaked. “If I brought him to you, could you—”

“I’m not a practitioner, Sam,” Ann said quickly, cutting him off. “I’m not even a dabbler. I’m a bookworm, like my mother. Bringing Dean to see me is only going to upset him and won’t accomplish anything.”

Sam sank back down onto the bed and cradled his head in his hands, one shoulder raised to keep the phone pressed against his ear. Missouri hadn’t been able to help, and now Ann had failed him, too. No, not ‘failed’. It wasn’t her fault that they had next to nothing to go on.

 _‘I swear to God, I’ll kill you before you touch him again.’_

 _‘Oh, I don’t have to. You’re going to do it for me.’_

That smile. That hateful, Cheshire-cat smile.

After almost a minute of awkward, heavy silence, Ann said, “I’m not saying you can’t come if you need to. I just didn’t think Dean—”

“No, you’re right, he wouldn’t. I just—Ann, I don’t know what to do,” he confessed, voice breaking.

“I wish I could tell you. I wish I could do something. Anything.”

“I know. It’s okay: it’s not your fault.” _It’s mine. I never should have left him alone. I should have been looking out for him._

“Sam, do you know what they want with Dean?” Ann tentatively asked.

“What they want?” Sam repeated dully. _They want to hurt him. They always want to hurt him._ And Sam always ended up with a ring side seat.

 _‘Take a little advice and relax. Enjoy the ride.’_

“Because as far as I can understand, and just tell me if I’m wrong here, this demon showed no interest in your brother until—”

“Until that night in the barn,” Sam finished. He frowned, lifting his head a little. “I never really thought about it. Do you think it matters?”

“Something changed, Sam. Something important. If you can figure out what that is—why they want him so badly—then it might help us figure out what they did to him.”

He thought of his conversation with Missouri yesterday afternoon and offered, “The claiming ritual you dug up, the one I used on Dean. It bound him to me. Missouri says we’re linked on a spiritual level now.” Not that they hadn’t already been tied to each other more ways than Sam could count.

 _‘Blood’s thicker than water, but with you Winchesters, it’s rock solid.’_

The demon had gotten that right anyway.

“And you’re only telling me this _now_?”

“I just found out, okay? Missouri noticed. She thinks that’s how I knew Dean was in trouble when they grabbed him. Maybe that’s why it wants—”

“No,” Ann cut him off. “I don’t think so. That would make sense if they wanted to use Dean to get to you, but they don’t, do they? They want Dean because of who he is, or what he can do. There’s something else: something we’re missing.”

“Any idea where I can go for the information?” Sam asked, but his heart was sinking. There were no answers anywhere, and they were running out of time.

 _‘Finally getting my hands on the two of you is gonna be real sweet, Sammy, but the fact that you’re gonna be the one to deliver Dean to me? Priceless.’_

God, if he betrayed Dean again, Sam thought he might shoot himself.

“Not off the top of my head,” Ann apologized, “but I’ll check around.”

“Thanks, Ann. And hurry.” Sam winced. “I don’t know how long we have before…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish, but Ann seemed to understand.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything more. Call me if you need to, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Goodbye, Sam. And be careful.”

“I will. Bye, Ann.” Sam hung up and sat with the phone pressed against his forehead, feeling its warmth sink into his skin. He was going to save Dean if it was the last thing he did. He just wished it didn’t feel so much like it would be.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was more than ready to leave Missouri’s first thing the next morning, but Missouri persuaded him to stay a little longer. Said that Dean needed the time to sort things through: to come to terms with some of the old memories that were resurfacing. And although Sam wanted more than anything to be there to help his brother through that, he knew that Dean wouldn’t welcome his presence. Not while he was feeling vulnerable.

So Sam stayed, and puttered around the house, and pitched in where he could. Mended a broken shutter by the living room window, trimmed the bushes in the yard, nailed down a step that was coming loose on the back porch. He talked a little with Missouri in the evenings, but mostly he kept to himself, thinking things through and remembering.

Remembering Dean ordering Sam to kill him in Landon’s front yard. Remembering losing Dean to Azrael again, and that endless phone call in the basement in Lawrence. Remembering the barn, and the way that Sam had been dying one minute and fine the next, and the look on Dean’s face when he drove the knife home. Remembering the bleak years after, and the first faint stirrings of hope. Remembering the first time Dean had smiled at him again and meant it.

Because remembering was better than worrying about what was going to happen now.

Sam kept turning the four rituals Ann had named over in his head, watching each possibility play out. Sometimes Dean broke. Sometimes he died. Sometimes he turned into something unfamiliar and dark: what Azrael had tried to make of him. But for some reason, Sam couldn’t manage to envision any kind of victory.

When he slept, he dreamed of the demon. It never spoke to him again. Just sat there in Missouri’s kitchen, grinning at him and fingering the collar. When Sam asked Missouri about the dreams—whether they were real or not—she couldn’t give him an answer. But he noticed that, after that conversation, she watched him with a furrowed brow whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

Finally, on the fifth day, she came out where Sam was sitting on the back steps and lowered herself down next to him. They sat there quietly for a few minutes, shoulders just brushing, and then Missouri said, “You wait here any longer, and he’s gonna convince himself to give up.”

Sam sighed. “Why does it always have to be all or nothing with him?”

“He’s just trying to protect you, Sam.”

“Yeah? And who’s supposed to protect him?”

Missouri smiled at him gently. “I thought that’s what you were planning on doing.”

Sam nodded, pressing his lips together. He glanced up at the sun. “If I leave now, I can probably get there by midnight.” But he hesitated, one hand running restlessly across the wooden railing, thinking about Dean.

Dean, who would never think to sit on a step and enjoy the warmth of the sun, and whose laugh always carried a bite these days. Dean, who had started collecting his battle-scars when he was only eight years old. Who had spent his life shielding Sam from darkness in all its forms, and growing colder every year: a little more cynical and worn around the edges.

And then Azrael had found him.

“Missouri?” Sam said suddenly. His voice sounded choked: weak. “Why does this keep happening to him?”

Missouri put her arm around Sam. Rocked him a little, and he hunched down to rest his head on her shoulder. “I don’t know, honey,” she murmured. "I just don't know."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thank God Sam was on his way because Dean was going off his rocker just sitting here. He’d tried to help Bobby the first day, but things were still awkward because of the whole knocking each other out and then tying each other to a chair thing, not to mention the fact that _someone_ had summoned a Sumerian demigod without permission, and Dean had never been all that good with research anyway. So the fifth time they’d nearly come to blows, Dean let himself out of the house and drifted over to the junkyard. Tinkered with the various junkers littering the place, which kept his hands busy but didn’t do much for his head.

Bobby’s was too quiet, and Dean hadn’t been away from Sam so much since before Azrael. He kept turning around to say something to him before realizing that Sam wasn’t there. No Sam meant no distractions, which meant that the crappy memories that those demonic sons of bitches had stirred up didn’t have any competition.

It wasn’t the faces he kept returning to: the countless lives he’d cut short on Azrael’s whim. It was the basement. Always the basement. Chained and gagged, or just ordered to stay still. Unable to disobey. And then there would be burning or freezing or cutting or sometimes just beatings that left his bones shattered and his skin blackened. Before the healing began, and it started all over again.

And through it all, Azrael’s voice had been there, whispering in his ear until its words were imprinted on his brain. _‘You’re mine, Dean. Sam left you—he gave you to me. He’s tired of you always being there, Dean, always playing the hero.’_

Another day it would shift tactics, and then it would be, _‘What do you think is happening to him, out there? Is he lost? Is he broken and bleeding, alone, with no one to save him? Is he begging for his life? Is he cursing your name because you haven’t come? If you’re good, if you obey, you can go back to him when this is over. You can save him.’_

Azrael turned him around, dangled Sam in front of him like a carrot. Beat him with Sam other times like a stick until he understood that his life in the basement revolved around two constants: pain was present, and Sam wasn’t. Sam was receding, dwindling into a shadow-figure whose name Dean couldn’t always remember. And then, finally, he never remembered: only knew that someone was supposed to be there, but wasn’t.

But then Sam had come for him. And after that, except for the few times a year Sam went to visit Ann, Dean hadn’t been alone.

Now it was all starting up again.

Dean had to protect Sam. That was the first thing, the prime directive. Keep Sam safe. Save him. But this time, saving Sam meant leaving him. It meant being alone. And Dean felt dizzy and sick even thinking about that.

He thought about his gun while he worked on the cars. Wondered if Sammy would be better off if he stopped thinking and did something about it. Sometimes he wondered so hard he could taste it, cold and smooth and metallic in his mouth. There would be no bindings to make him turn it away this time.

He even went so far as to take it out one day. Sat holding it for about an hour, staring at the wall. But in the end he got up and put it away because there was still a chance that Sam needed him. And as long as that chance existed, as long as he could still do what he was meant to, he wasn’t going to give up.

Which left Dean with the sickening prospect of striking out on his own. If he was going to do it, then he would have to leave before Sam got here because the kid was more clingy than an octopus when he wanted to be. Dean knew he should go, knew it deep in his bones, but he kept delaying anyway. Kept trying to think of a way out: hoping that Bobby would pull a miracle out of his cap.

Then Sam called, said he was about a half-hour out, and that they should watch for him. It was too late to vanish now: Sam would track him down before he got more than fifty miles. And Dean was so fucking relieved that guilt knotted in his stomach. He was being selfish. He should have left already: should have run to the other end of the fucking earth.

It was too late to do any of that now, though, so Dean resigned himself to waiting. Tried to calm his stomach down. Sat with Bobby while the man paged through another text. He drummed his fingers on his thigh and stared out the window at the moon, hanging low and full over the tops of the trees. And then he could see lights approaching: could hear the purr of the Impala’s engine. Bobby didn’t even bother looking up as Dean left to meet Sam on the porch.

Sam’s face looked pinched, as though he hadn’t been sleeping much, but he grinned when he bounded up the last few steps to Dean’s side. “Hey, man, how’re you feeling?”

“Probably better than you,” Dean said wryly. “Did you get _any_ sleep at Missouri’s?”

“Some,” Sam said, but his eyes cut away from Dean’s. Little sneak was hiding something.

Dean’s chest tightened and he frowned. “What is it?” he demanded.

“What?” Sam asked, eyes wide and innocent. Dean just scowled at him until he dropped his gaze and started toward the door.

Dean shifted to the side, blocking his brother’s path. “Don’t bullshit me, Sam. Something happened at Missouri’s, and I want to know what.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Sam shot back. “ _Demigods_ , Dean? What the _fuck_?”

Dean’s mouth dropped a little. How the hell did Sam know about Anzu? “How did you—No, never mind. Missouri found out somehow, didn’t she?” He snorted. “Figures. Look, I was gonna tell you as soon as you got here, man. Scout’s honor. It just didn’t seem like something to say over the phone. And it’s not like I had anything to do with it: I was just window dressing.”

Sam fixed him with a stern look. “So it _didn’t_ try to take you back to whatever hell dimension Bobby fished it out of?”

God, how much had Missouri seen? Dean shifted his shoulders in a shrug. “We had a little misunderstanding.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Dean just shrugged again, glancing away toward the yard. He wasn’t about to tell Sam that something else was after him, on top of that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Sam had enough to deal with already.

But Sam must have picked up a few tricks from Missouri, because he narrowed his eyes and said, “Not everything is about me, Dean.”

Damn it. But Dean gave avoidance the whole college try anyway. “Um, duh? I’ve been trying to get that through your thick skull for years.”

Sam snorted and squared his shoulders. “Haven’t you even _considered_ that this might not be about me? Hell, Dean, did any of those things even _mention_ me?” His voice cut through the night loudly and Dean glanced over his shoulder, checking for Bobby. The man must have heard that.

When Bobby didn't show, Dean turned his attention back to Sam. Cleared his throat and, keeping his voice low, started, “The yellow-eyed demon—”

“Wanted you just as much as it wanted me, last time I checked,” Sam snapped. “Or did you forget what it said in the barn?”

Dean’s breath hissed out in a rush and he felt his face go still. He remembered the barn. Remembered that he’d been so lost and hurt and messed up that he’d almost tossed a knife through a little girl’s stomach. That he would have done it if the demon hadn’t left her of its own free will.

Sam winced. “Dean, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“I’m fine.” Dean turned away before Sam could see the lie in his eyes. His gaze caught on the front door and he started toward it. He needed to sit down, pour himself a few stiff drinks.

Dean reached out to pull the screen door open, and then Sam was slamming it shut on him, leaning against it and holding it closed with one hand. Dean tensed. Told himself that it was Sam standing so close behind him. Sam and not Azrael. Not the demon. He was safe.

“You’re not fine, and we both know it,” Sam said, softly but urgently.

Dean stared down at the floor, working his jaw. _Don’t_ , he thought. _Just leave it, Sammy._ But the kid was like a dog with a damned bone.

“Dean, please. Just _talk_ to me, man.”

“Let go of the door, Sam,” Dean said hoarsely.

“No, not until you admit it.”

“Sammy …”

Sam’s hand closed on Dean’s arm just below his t-shirt, turning him. Dean let himself be turned. Saw the moon, full and low, over his brother’s shoulder. Saw Sam’s face: brow furrowed in worry, mouth lined with sorrow.

Then it slammed into him like the sun, burning him open: hollowing him out. Those yellow eyes were everywhere, forcing him wider. Dean dropped to the floor, muscles short-circuiting, and he could hear Sam yelling for Bobby above him.

 _S’okay_ , he tried to say, and couldn’t move his lips. Couldn’t breathe. Time had slowed: had twisted into molasses. He felt like his skin was splitting apart.

 **Dean** , the demon laughed, and the sound echoed everywhere because he was open. He was open so fucking wide and he couldn’t shut it out. Couldn’t fight it.

 _Sorry, Sammy. I fucked up._

Dean lay there and waited for the darkness to take him.


End file.
